


Of Wands and Trees

by Omi_Ohmy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Community: hd_erised, Drinking, H/D Erised 2018, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Massage, Old Wounds, Outdoor Sex, POV Draco Malfoy, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Rimming, Rustic Living, Slow Burn, Summer, Sunburn, Swimming, Switching, Tree Magic, Trees, Wandmaking (Harry Potter), Wands, tree hugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-13 16:15:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16895880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omi_Ohmy/pseuds/Omi_Ohmy
Summary: All Draco wants to do is be a wandmaker, but to do so he needs to understand the soul of trees. Of course, the only man who might be able to help him is the one man who is more of a mystery to him than any tree.





	Of Wands and Trees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saulaie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saulaie/gifts), [korlaena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/korlaena/gifts).



> Dear Saulaie and Korlaena, your prompt was written for me. Trees! I got to indulge every tree-loving cell in my body writing this, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it. Mods, thank you for being so great. Thanks to E and I for beta. <3

Draco stood for a moment, watching witches and wizards as they hurried along Diagon Alley. So many people in a rush, and yet they still found time to notice him. More than one glance lingered on his pale hair, and one woman crossed to the other side of the road, dragging her small child with her when she saw him. He hated not having a cloak to hide behind, but even though it was only May, it was too hot for anything other than the shirt he wore, buttoned to the top, with his Muggle trousers. Not that a cloak always helped, but at least he could hold onto the illusion that he was hidden behind its folds.

In the bright morning light, Draco could barely make out the gold swirl on the sign hanging above the shop. At one time it had filled him with such hope, and then excitement. Now he sighed and took a moment to put a smile on his face before pushing the door open.

"Is that you, Draco?" Ollivander’s voice was thin, shaky. The old stream of guilt rose and spun inside Draco, no matter what their relationship now, for Ollivander’s imprisonment in his home had diminished him in some undeniable ways.

"Yes." Draco shook the paper bag in his hand, even though Ollivander would not be able to see it from the back room. "I brought those pumpkin pasties you like."

Ollivander came out from between the towering stacks of dusty wand boxes, and gave a watery smile. Draco knew though, that however weak Ollivander appeared, there was still steel within. Like a wand core, he thought sourly.

"Today I thought we could have another go at working with that cherry wood. It seemed a little better than the ash you tried."

Draco bowed his head in agreement. The less said about the ash the better; no matter how he tried to hold onto it, it slipped and moved and he’d ruined so many possible wands that Ollivander had made him go home early the day before.

Ollivander reached out his papery hand, and touched Draco’s chin lightly. Draco looked up to meet Ollivander’s eyes.

"It’s not easy, making a wand. My own apprenticeship took years. You need to learn to _feel_ the wood—"

"But it’s not something that can be taught," Draco finished, having heard this before. "I know."

He enjoyed working with wood, enjoyed the warmth of it. He liked the weight of it in his hands, and how with tools he could carve and shape it. Over the past three years, he had learned to identify different types of wood, their properties, and the most common wand shapes. However when it came to feeling the magic within, knowing the form for that particular wand and the core that went with it, Draco had never made anything more than a blind guess. And his work suffered for it. He sighed again.

"You worry too much." Ollivander patted his cheek. "It will be fine. Now," he looked down, a slight frown on his face as he searched for the bag Draco had brought. "Where’s my pasty?"

Following Ollivander as he shuffled off to the back room leaving a trail of pastry crumbs behind him, Draco hoped that this would be the day he managed to fit a wand core, finally. Without this step he would never be able to complete his wand-making apprenticeship.

*

One hour later, the shop bell tinkling gave Draco a reason to leave the workshop at the back at the shop. So far he had boxed up some wands, swept the floor, made tea, and prepared all his tools and materials three times over. He was aware of Ollivander glancing up every now and then, taking in every moment of procrastination.

Draco joined Ollivander in the shop, smiling as a young boy got his first wand. Purple sparks rushed through the air, and a delighted smile lit the boy’s face. He remembered being so excited, looking up at his father’s face for approval now that he was a proper wizard too. His father had been puffed with pride that day, and Draco was allowed an extra serving of ice cream when they had stopped at Fortescue’s on the way home. A hunger for that moment of magic, for the beginning of every bit of the wonder of magic, filled Draco. This was what he wanted to do: help people find their way to magic. If he could do this, perhaps he could make the Malfoy name mean something new, something associated with hope and no longer tainted by war and darkness.

After the boy and his mother – dark skin flushed darker with pride beneath her headwrap, eyes warm and teeth visible in her wide smile, already promising ice cream from Lovegood’s next door – had left, Draco returned to the workshop. He donned the protective goggles needed, then placed the wood he wanted for his latest attempt at a wand in the clamps of the drill used for making the slim channel needed for a wand’s core.

This time he had a hefty cherry wand, not yet carved into a finer shape, as he wanted to see what happened when he added a core first. It sat, blank and empty in the battered clamps, which Ollivander – or maybe his father – had wrapped in thick wool to avoid scratching. For this cherry wand Draco had selected a unicorn hair, wearing gloves to pick it out and shivering slightly at the hint of moonlight in its silver length. Cherry and unicorn was such a solid combination, surely Ollivander would approve. Again, he was aware of Ollivander’s quiet gaze, the skin on the back of his neck taut with the tension from his being watched, but Draco elected to ignore it – or at least attempt to – and continued work regardless. Draco took a deep breath before he picked up the drill bit he’d selected: extra fine, long enough to work through the length of the wand. He double-checked that the wood was held firmly, that the drill would work straight to its heart.

And then Draco turned the cool iron wheel that ran the drill down, and began to work the foot pedal that turned it. Slowly he watched as the metal ate into the wood, thin curls of wood shavings disgorging as the bit lowered. Draco held his breath; at this moment every other time, something had gone wrong. A bead of sweat gathered on his forehead, but he dared not wipe it. Nothing could be allowed to ruin this. Nothing.

Even with his breath held, his body tight and every bit of him focused on the wand wood, he saw the drill bit seem to oscillate, heard the sound of the drill become a whine, saw the hole widen and become more ragged. He felt the wavering of the bit in the machine. And then he saw the crack, a thin line at first, grow. It spread and he heard it too, heard the moment the wand split into two parts. He stopped moving his foot. His chest felt as hard and tight as before, as though his breath had caught and stuck and nothing in his body would work again.

"You were too slow," Ollivander said. "Too tentative." He got off his stool and came to stand beside Draco. "And why the uncarved wood?" He shook his head before Draco could answer. "Everything about this speaks of fear. You can’t make wands if you are frightened, Draco."

"I want to learn," Draco said, pulling off his goggles in frustration. "How can I learn if I can’t make mistakes?"

"I never said you can’t make mistakes. But your fear… the wood needs something different."

Ollivander always talked about the wood as though it were alive. Right now the wood looked anything but alive. The two halves lay in the clamp as though it were a death grip; Draco had killed this one, too.

"You understand magic, Draco, and I see the artistry in your carvings. However… I don’t know how to put this." His smile touched eyes that were sad, full of regrets. "You have no soul when it comes to living things, when it comes to the wood and the wand cores. I think you need to find this soul before you can craft a wand. Maybe it is something you can learn, or maybe you would be better suited to joining our friend Luna next door making ice creams instead. But I can’t continue watching you break wands apart."

Draco’s throat was painfully tight. He swallowed against the lump there. "Are you… is my apprenticeship over?"

Ollivander’s silence said more than the words that followed. "On pause, shall we say. If you can find a way to hear a tree sing, or see the colours of a wand’s core – if you can handle a unicorn’s hair without shuddering – then maybe we can resume. I had thought that you had promise. I had hoped that you—"

"Fine."

Draco pushed his stool back, the scrape of its feet loud on the floor. He knew what Ollivander had hoped, because he had hoped it too. It was about more than making wands. It was also about making amends, about making something new and better out of the mess of the war.

He took off his apron, folded it, and left it on his stool. Ollivander watched in silence as Draco walked out of the shop, and away from his last hope of redemption.

*

"I don’t believe you’re ‘fine’ at all." Millicent poured him a large glass of merlot. She’d never been one to mince her words. The log fire crackled – the night was chilly, although it was May – and Draco was sinking into his spot on the huge sofa, but rather than feeling warm and comforted, he felt suffocated. It was all too… soft. He usually loved sitting in Greg’s dark little living room like this, feet tucked under him and glass of wine in hand. Except now he was holding himself tight, his knees bony beneath his arms; he hadn’t taken his glass of wine from the coffee table yet.

Draco didn’t look up. "I am fine. I don’t know why—" He stopped. "I always knew it would probably end like this."

"Sometimes," said Millicent, "I want to get up and shake you until you get some perspective." She pushed the glass of wine closer. "It’s never been clear what you think of your apprenticeship. Merlin, Draco, you can be infuriating." He heard the steel in her voice, and had no problem picturing her striding across the room to give him a vigorous shake. Since she’d trained as a Healer she’d lost any last scraps of patience she might have had with what she perceived to be time-wasting or moping. "This isn’t your last chance, whatever you think."

"What else can I think?" A little of Draco’s bitterness seeped out, despite his best efforts to present a stoic front. He knew they were trying to be supportive, but his friends didn’t get how much he’d put into becoming a wandmaker. "I’ve tried so hard, and it hasn’t been enough."

Glancing up at his friends, he saw Millicent look over at Greg, who shrugged but said nothing.

"Sometimes it isn’t about trying." Millicent wasn’t going to let this go, Draco could see that. He’d hoped they would help soothe the hurt of being kicked out of his apprenticeship, but now he felt as though he had to defend himself to them.

He dug his chin into his knees and stared at the flames. "There’s nothing else to give. I’ve tried. I give up."

"I’ve never seen you anything other than wound up tight. You make it so hard for yourself." Her voice was softer now, and sadder too. Draco looked up, and it hurt seeing the pity in her eyes as she looked at him. "Sometimes I think you try too hard."

"What choice do I have?"

"We’ve all got a choice," said Greg quietly. "It took me years to work that out."

Yes, and Greg’s first choice, Draco remembered sourly, was to turn his back on Draco. Quite literally. When they’d all gone back for that stupid eighth year, Draco had been sick with fear. He’d only gone back because his mother had asked him to. He’d walked up to Greg, the knots in his stomach loosening a little at the sight of a familiar face. It hadn’t been the same as before, and Draco had almost been able to see Vince standing beside Greg, but what he hadn’t expected was the way that Greg met his eyes with an expression of pure sadness, held his gaze for the briefest of moments – so brief afterwards Draco wondered whether he’d imagined it – and then turned away. Confronted with Greg’s huge back, the knots tightened and pulled Draco’s insides painfully. Draco had slunk away, friendless and alone.

Of course, Greg had made up for it since, and Draco was staying in his spare room, but still, the past stung.

"You don’t get it," said Draco. "Either I give up now, or what, I struggle on for years, making more and more of a fool of myself, becoming more and more of a failure?

Millicent actually barked out a laugh at that. "You don’t quit. I don’t think you have it in you. You’ll might have a bit of a sulk, but then you’ll be back for more."

"What was it exactly he said?" Greg asked.

Draco sighed. "No soul. I don’t get the soul of the wood."

Greg nodded thoughtfully, visibly turning over the words in his head. "Might be there’s someone out there who could help you talk to trees or whatever it is that you need to do?"

"Talk to the trees?"

Greg shrugged. "I don’t know. But maybe someone like Neville? He likes plants. Anyway, what have you got to lose by asking?"

The thing about Greg was, he might have turned his back on Draco for a while, but he actually did so much good for the Slytherins by being… well, _nice_ , that in the end he’d pulled Draco into a social group of oddballs and _Hufflepuffs_. And even though the eighth year had been hellish, at least Draco had been not entirely alone. Draco considered the wide-open face, the earnest eyes, and Greg’s question.

"Neville?" Since when had Greg been on first-name terms with Longbottom?

Greg blushed. "He likes ice cream, too."

Of course, the Luna Lovegood fan club.

"It’s worth a try," Millicent said, although she’d scowled at the mention of ice cream. Sometimes Draco wondered if she had a thing for Greg herself. Or Luna. Anything was possible with Millicent.

"I thought I tried too hard? Maybe I shouldn’t be trying at all."

"There’s a balance, Draco. You can try without everything being about you trying."

"That makes no sense to me," Draco said. But he had now uncurled enough to reach out for his wine glass. "But I guess there’s no harm in seeing if Longbottom will talk to me without hexing me."

*

"Bowtruckles," Longbottom said, with far too cheery a smile. "Apparently that’s how you know you’re in a magical forest." His long face was pale compared to the buckets of gold, magenta, indigo and green all around him. Between research trips Longbottom ran a magical florists in Diagon Alley. All the better for Longbottom in terms of being close to Luna, as she always seemed to have flocks of admirers, Draco thought, but also very convenient for his peace offerings to his own mother.

Draco pointed at some tall Silphium, their leaves forming a tangle of golden-green lines that wove in and out of flat yellow flowers. He hadn’t seen them for years, not since his childhood, when his mother would fill the ballroom with them. They smelled, if he remembered correctly, of honey. Bowtruckles… he remembered spindly legs with distaste; he would rather not have to encounter them again. He couldn’t believe he was contemplating travelling to a forest as if that would fix everything and Ollivander would welcome him back with open arms. And as for a magical forest… he’d rather hoped he’d not have to go into another one after his experiences of the Forbidden Forest at school.

"I only want to find out about wood, not find a magical forest."

"Yeah, but the man I know deals in magical wood. Honestly, I think he’s the person you need to speak to. Guillaume. And when he’s not in London on business—"

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. An unsolicited reassurance – that ‘honestly’ – was never good news. He refocused on the pertinent details. "If he comes to London surely it would be easier to see him here."

"No." Longbottom finished wrapping the flowers in tissue paper. "What colour ribbon will she like?"

"Yellow." They’d go with the delicate tangle of Silphium he’d selected for his mother. "But why, why not London?"

"You’ve just missed him. He won’t be back for another year." Longbottom pulled out a length of ribbon, and cut it with a weighty pair of scissors attached to the side of the counter with a nail and a rough piece of string. "Unless you can wait that long?"

Draco took a breath, forcing his body to calm. It was like a series of obstacles thrown up in his way, and every person he met seemed determined to present him with another one.

"So," he said. "Bowtruckles?"

"The main thing is you find Guillaume. I’ve got an address for him in Marseille, but from what I’ve heard he’s often out in the woods."

It wasn’t until Draco had counted out the money for the flowers that Longbottom went to the back and copied down the address onto a scrap of paper. Still, Draco had it. His mother better like the bloody flowers. They were priced in Galleons, not Sickles as he had first thought.

*

Although he’d never been to Marseille before, when the Portkey brought him to a back street, the air heavy with warmth and salt, and shutters at every window, Draco felt at home. He hoped his French was still passable. His parents had preferred Paris, where they could show off in a way they could never quite match at home, but it had been years since he had visited. He pushed away the thought of precisely why that was, of cold corridors and the sound of a snake slithering along them.

As he strode out into the busier street beyond, warm honeyed sunlight fell across his face, and Draco felt his shoulders lighten. Perhaps this wasn’t so bad a way to pursue his apprenticeship, after all.

The chatter of a couple of women nearby distracted him. They didn’t speak as fast as the Parisians he had known, but the accent was different and he had to concentrate on what they were talking about. Work. They were talking about work, nothing more, and he stood back and watched them pass, their voices fading as they disappeared down the street.

Carefully, Draco pulled out the piece of paper Longbottom had given him.

The address, when he found it, was not down some interesting cobbled street or in a charming apartment building. Instead, it was in a concrete block on a street full of road markings, parked cars, and trees that had recently been pollarded. He looked up at their naked stumps of branches, and shivered at the brief memory of the Whomping Willow that came to mind. Even in the sunshine, the building looked run-down, and the address itself was for a closed shop. As Draco stepped nearer to the white-washed window, however, he saw an unmistakable shimmer. He reached out, and the glass cleared, revealing a sleek display of magical plants: Alihotsy sat alongside Venomous Tentacula, and a row of Mimbulus Mimbletonia sat beneath them. A large container of Wiggentree stood in a corner, alongside one of what looked like plain birch branches.

A bell tinkled as Draco stepped through the door, and the man sitting on a stool in the corner looked up and smiled.

"Bonjour, monsieur."

"Bonjour."

"You have the look of an Englishman about you," the man said in English. He himself was small and wiry, his brown hair tied back and his skin tanned the colour of a walnut.

"Yes," said Draco. "My name is Draco Malfoy."

At the name Malfoy, the man’s head shot up, but he didn’t say anything. After a beat, he extended his hand. "I am Guillaume."

"Neville Longbottom sent me here."

"Ah yes, Neville! How is he? Still playing with his flowers?"

"Yes."

"But you haven’t come here for flowers."

Draco had never considered before that Longbottom might have dodgy connections, but there was definitely a whiff of the not-quite-legal about this man.

"I need to find out about wood. Magical wood, if possible. Longbottom said that you knew about wood, that you go into the woods."

"Why?"

"I’m training to be a wandmaker. I’m apprenticed with Ollivander, in London."

"Ah, Garrick! Yes, him I have met. Hmm." Guillaume tapped his finger on his knee. "I do not know how a Malfoy ends apprenticed to Monsieur Ollivander and knows Neville Longbottom well enough to be given my details. But…"

"Can you help me?"

"No."

"Oh." Draco felt his hopes sink, ready to crash out of sight.

"You don’t need me. No, you need Monsieur Pas-de-baguette."

"Monsieur… who?" Monsieur no bread? That made no sense.

Guillaume waved his hand. "A silly name I have for him. No matter. But he is who you need." He nodded. "He lives outside of town, deep in the country, and it is he who knows the trees the best. He is… a little, er, how do you say... eccentric?"

Draco was being sent out to find a strange old French man, wasn’t he? He sighed. This was turning into a bit of an epic quest, but if it meant he could make wands, he’d take it.

"So how exactly do I find him?"

"Now that is a question with no precise answer. But let me see what I can do."

Draco spent the next half hour with Guillaume, who gave him a set of instructions that sounded even more like some fairytale quest. He had to follow the hills, seek the help of villagers, and then rely on his magical senses to guide him the rest of the way.

"And how will I know when I’ve met the man?"

"Oh, you will know! He is very… unique."

With more than a little trepidation, Draco headed off to find a hotel for one night of comfort before setting off into the wild.

*

The landscape was nothing like Draco had expected. When Guillaume had told him he had to go into the countryside, he’d pictured sedate waterways and long rows of poplar trees, or chateaux with sturdy stone walls and pointed turrets. He’d imagined vineyards and sunflowers, or wide fields.

This, though, was wild forest, not the sedate affairs of Wiltshire. For one thing, this land was not flat, nor even gently rolling. Chalky outcrops poked from the side of hills, and rocks seemed dropped in from above, littering the valleys and open spaces. And yet there was no denying that this was also a place of trees. Green carpeted hills that seemed more like mini-mountains, rose sharply around him. The ground beneath his feet was dry, dusty, loose stones and leaves causing him to slip and slide while avoiding tree roots. Even the air sounded different; he could hear birdsong, but these birds weren’t quite the same as at home.

He walked on, aware of the dusty film of sweat building on the back of this neck, the way his t-shirt was beginning to cling damply to his body. It didn’t matter, the mosquito bites on his ankles didn’t matter, the slight limp from when he had tripped over earlier didn’t matter. All that did matter was that he found the deep woods he’d heard the villagers talking about. They spoke of mysterious beasts and terrible accidents, but Draco recognised magic in their descriptions.

A quick movement ahead caught his eye, and he drew his wand out as a precaution. Wild boar roamed this forest, and he didn’t want to be caught unawares.

Memories of a thicker, darker, colder forest filled the spaces in the trees. The Forbidden Forest had always been a place of nightmares for him. Thoughts of Hogwarts, normally buttoned down as safely as possible, rose unbidden. Draco cursed the trees for doing this, for taking him back to where he didn’t want to go. The familiar tightness caught his chest, and he stopped to lean a hand against a tree and take some long, deep breaths until he felt his chest open a little again. He saw in his mind’s eye Potter, tanned but hollow-eyed, standing at the edge of the Forest in their eighth year.

He had spun at the sound of a rustle to his side, his wand quavering in his shaking fingers. He scanned the trees, but saw nothing. Whatever it was, he hoped it had gone away. After another few deep breaths – closer to gulps than breaths if he was honest – he lowered his wand and continued to make his way deeper into the forest.

 _Potter, Potter, Potter_. His feet marked out the rhythm of the name. Draco felt shaken in the dappled sunlight, and he looked around, searching not for mysterious creatures but for sights and sounds to ground himself. Double pine needles were scattered on the dusty ground, and above the trees, the sky appeared as a startling blue, more vibrant than any English sky. His breathing settled, but his thoughts circled and remained on Potter. Today wasn’t a day to avoid them, then. Maybe it was being amongst trees again. With a heavy sigh, Draco let his mind dwell on that strange first meeting in the eighth year.

He hadn’t wanted to go any nearer the dark trees, but something about the sight of Potter looking so lost had kept him close.

"Malfoy." It was Potter who spoke first.

Draco didn’t reply, not trusting himself around the boy he’d hated for so long, the boy who had saved them all from ruin.

"No one else comes here."

Draco shrugged. He wasn’t sure why he had come here. The Forbidden Forest was not a safe place, but then again neither was the castle. Too many people wanted him dead, or in Azkaban. "I…" His voice was hoarse from not speaking. He cleared his throat. "I thought you’d be back there, with your fans." He nodded over to the castle, while simultaneously wincing at the echoes of his arrogant past self. Something about Potter always brought out the worst in him, although seeing how awful Potter looked, he didn’t know what. The circles under his eyes were bruise-deep; he thought it unlikely Potter had slept in days.

"It’s easier here." Potter pushed at the tufts of grass poking up from the ground at the forest’s edge, exposing dark leaf-rich loam beneath the smattering of brown and rust leaves resting there. "Did you know that I died?"

"My mother said that you were only pretending."

"I was when she checked on me. But before that, I died."

Draco didn’t know what to say. At the same time, this wasn’t a conversation to walk away from. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Who else am I going to talk to? They," he nodded his head to the school, "want to forget, or talk about what they went through. I wasn’t part of that. I was in a sodding tent for most of last year, not here."

"Still, why me?"

"You’re here, aren’t you? At the edge, near the darkness. Like me." He looked over his shoulder at the forest. "For me it’s full of the dead, but I want to be in it, too. I can’t think where else I belong anymore."

Did Potter want to be dead? Alarm threaded up through Draco. "You’re not…" Draco didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

Potter gave a hollow laugh. "Oh, don’t worry, I’m here to stay. Not much point about choosing to come back otherwise. And not really on when so many didn’t make it."

Something about the wildness of Potter’s face brought a corresponding leap of daring to Draco. "I hate it here. At school, I mean. Everyone hates me, and I hate living with… him."

"Him?"

"Past me. The me who made all those stupid decisions." Draco hugged his cloak tighter to his body, feeling the chill of the autumn air right to his bones. He fixed his eyes on a lined tree trunk to Potter’s left, but barely saw it. His mind was on cold corridors, and his little space in front of the Vanishing Cabinet. "It’s me, and it isn’t me. Some choices I can’t see I could have done anything different. Others I still want to feel proud of, but I know I can’t. But most of all," he swallowed, "most of all I wish it had never happened. I wish I’d never had to see my father brought low, or my mother terrified." His throat was tight now, and he knew no more words could come out. Not about this, not now. He looked, tentatively, to see how Potter had taken it.

Potter wasn’t backing away, or looking disgusted.

"It’s like an echo. Like the past just won’t let go." Potter sagged slightly, his shoulders dipping down. "I made mistakes, too. I hate being close to them. I… I think I get what you mean."

Their eyes met, and what Draco saw there was a strange understanding. For the first time since he’d got back to Hogwarts, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

Beneath the hot sun and the pine trees, that day seemed a long way away. He hadn’t spoken to Potter for years.They’d talked a few more times and Draco had begun to consider him almost a friend, but after eighth year Potter had disappeared from the public eye and Draco had not heard from him since. Not a friend, after all. This hadn’t really surprised Draco, and he’d returned to his group of oddballs, Hufflepuffs, and the occasional former Slytherin.

Draco walked on. He’d been told it was a half-day trek to get to the top of the hill. From there he would be able to see where to go next. The villagers were Muggles, and had been vague about where exactly this dangerous wood lay, but according to Guillaume, there were definitely ancient trees in a magical forest here. ‘The best rune-wood this side of the world,’ was how it had been described. Of course, what Draco wanted was not rune-wood, but according to Guillaume, with wood this magical, you couldn’t help but feel it. The way he spoke about it sounded as though it was some kind of mystical experience. Draco didn’t need that, but he needed _something_. He sighed; he really didn’t have much of a plan, but was hoping that simply being here would be enough.

The path he was following took him ever upwards, but his feet continued to slip on loose scree.

His legs were aching and his hair was wet with sweat by the time he broke through the trees to a rocky outcrop at the top of the hill. The vegetation was sparse here, tough leaves between the jutting stones, but looking across the valley he could see green hills fading to blue in the distance.

Guillaume had been clear about this: the local Muggles could only get him so far; the rest would be down to his magical abilities. _There is a section of the trees that is hidden with their own secret enchantments. No hikers enter there_. Un bois dormant, _indeed. Here you will find the trees you seek, and the man to guide you through them._

 _Un bois dormant_ … a sleeping forest. A magical forest, like in the tale of the princess asleep for a hundred years.

Draco closed his eyes against the bright sun, and considered his options. His legs ached and his throat was parched, but before he could rest, he needed to know where to go next. Longbottom had been wrong: there were no Bowtruckles in this part of the world to helpfully mark out where the magical forests lay. Instead, Draco needed to rely on his own magic. He reached for his wand, the slim weight of it still a comfort in his hands after all these years. Twirling it lightly in his fingers, he attempted to tune into the energy of the woods around him.

Sensing a slight tingle to his right, Draco turned to face the feeling fully. He took a deep breath, the pine-scented air filling his lungs. Yes, there; he could feel it like a soft song in his bones, almost too quiet to hear.

The world was a too-bright blur for a moment when he opened his eyes, and Draco blinked a few times until his sight adjusted. The hills he was looking at appeared no different to any of others around him, but he took a few minutes to make note of any distinguishing features. One hill to his right was more rocky than the others, rather like the one he was standing on. The others were a rolling green, tree-covered, but he tried to memorise their shapes. They looked, he thought, rather like a face resting in sleep.

Having sensed the magic from this distance, he was sure that he would be able to sense the trees when he grew closer. This was not magic to keep those with magic away; it was organic magic, alive and aimed solely at keeping the woods magical. He got the distinct impression though, that no one was really welcome. Just the trees.

*

As Draco descended, the fragrant pine trees thinned out and a denser sort of forest emerged, pale grey trunks reaching upwards at strange angles, and the light filtered green through the leaves above. Every now and then he had to stop, close his eyes and sense the tree-energy again, as the only sense of direction he had otherwise was ‘down’. He had thought the ascent tricky, but now his whole body was tumbling forward as he slipped and tripped his way down.

"Merlin’s fucking beard!" His voice was swallowed by the trees as he slammed into one of the hard, crooked trees, his arm catching one of its branches. He swore again when he saw the long tear in his sleeve and corresponding shallow gash in his arm. Stupid bloody trees.

A fallen tree provided a lumpy and hard seat, but he didn’t care how uncomfortable it was. Sweat stung his eyes, and the cut on his arm smarted. A wave of images washed over him, bringing back unwelcome memories of sitting in front of that cabinet, the pressure to do the impossible. And then he saw Ollivander’s face, the way he had looked with pity at Draco as he told him he had failed at his apprenticeship.

Except Draco was trying not to fail. He was going to do this. Somehow.

Nothing had changed, had it?

Except that it had. Draco forced his shoulders to relax, found his water bottle from the bag on his back, and drank deeply. He wasn’t a scared child. He’d had the selfishness knocked out of him by life, and he was in charge of his own destiny. He _had_ done the impossible before, and he could do it again. He was going to learn to listen to trees or whatever it was Ollivander had said, because he’d already given over two years of his life to this, and it was his only chance at living any kind of a respectable life in the wizarding world.

His way down became steeper after this, but it didn’t matter. He was closer than he had been the day before, or even an hour before.

Draco kept walking, but the trees all looked the same, and seemed to be getting thicker. What he needed was an idea of where he was. He eyed up the nearest tree: it had branches that looked as though they would be easy to climb.

His sweat stung in the cut on his arm, and Draco’s skin felt almost raw and prickly in the heat, but he focused on hauling himself up. If he could only get a little higher, he would be able to see above the forest canopy, and maybe work out where he was. He moved his foot to the next branch up, pushed up, and twisted his body so that his thighs ached and his side pulled but he could finally see past the top of the tree.

Was that outcrop there the part of the reclining face that had looked like a nose? Draco wasn’t sure. He tried again, to feel that almost-sense of the trees themselves, but it wasn’t there any more. Why had he thought he’d be able to feel it? The whole point of him being up this tree in the middle of nowhere was that he needed to learn this somehow. Guillaume had been so bloody confident that Draco would be able to find his answers here, but all he had found so far were trees, rocks, and more trees. A slight stinging sensation made Draco grimace: and mosquitoes, apparently. Without thinking, he swatted the side of his neck.

And the weight of his body tipped, only slightly but also enough to move his foot and with a splintering crack – more _alive_ than Draco was familiar with and yet also so familiar – the world fell on its side. Draco hit arm and leg, side and head, scraping skin as he fell, with no grace at all, out of the tree.

A second splintering crack tore through Draco’s leg as he landed, at the same time as the ground knocked all the wind out of him. He lay there, chest too tight to even gasp, his leg more painful than anything he’d felt in a long time, scratched, battered, and bruised, and looked up at the sky. How was it such a vivid shade of blue? These leaves were so thick, and only a moment before he’d been up in amongst them. He sucked in a breath, and with it more pain. What had he been thinking, heading off into the woods like that? What an idiot.

Draco tried to move his leg, but a sharp pain added to the pulsating throb and he stopped. With a grunt he lifted his head to look at it, but he let his head drop down immediately as his stomach lurched at the sight of his leg at what was not a normal angle. Fuck. He’d broken his leg in the middle of trees and rocks… his wand. He needed his wand. With another grunt – more moan than grunt – he heaved himself up to find his wand. It wasn’t in his pocket… he saw it to one side. Too far to reach.

The birds here sounded different. There were more insects too. And the earth smelt like dust and old leaves. Draco blinked up at the trees and tried to work out what he could do now. His choices were limited: somehow he would have to haul himself over to his wand, fix his leg as best he could, then get back to civilisation. He could live without trees, woods, and wandmaking. Perhaps he’d see if Luna would give him a job selling ice cream. Why hadn’t he thought about that before? Ice cream. Much nicer than dusty wand shops and carving and nicking his hands with tools and not feeling the bloody soul of trees. Maybe trees didn’t like him. Yes, that’s what it was. The stupid woody things hated hi—

A shadow fell across Draco’s face. Fear clamped on his belly, cold as a stone. If Draco hadn’t already been lying immobile on the ground, he would have frozen. As it was, he forced himself to look, to see what had cast the shadow. His eyes hurt with the strain of looking at such an unnatural angle, but he saw enough to see that it was a man standing over him. There was something familiar about the silhouette of a messy mop of hair and his fear transmuted into irritation without Draco quite knowing why. He closed his eyes, too tired to deal with whatever this was. Maybe he’d wake up in his lumpy bed in Greg’s flat, with the sound of Greg talking to his cat coming from the other room. A nice long sleep, that’s what he needed.

The dusty scent of the earth, the birds, the stabs of pain, and any thoughts of messy hair and strange men faded into darkness and oblivion.

*

The first thing Draco noticed when he opened his eyes was that he was definitely not in his bed at home. A sky like ink was filled with hundreds of pricks of light; he could see the wash of the Milky Way, and the crescent of the moon hung at the edge of his vision.

Memories of falling through the air came back to him with corresponding aches and twinges in his body. Ah yes, he had hit most parts of himself on his way down.

Draco sat bolt upright. His leg! He was covered with a heavy blanket, but pulled it aside to check his leg. It only throbbed now, no excruciating pain, and it was pointing in the right direction. Draco’s boots weren’t on, and he attempted to wriggle his toes. He saw his socks move, felt the muscles contract and release, with a huge flood of relief.

A spark and a crackle drew Draco’s attention to his side, where a small fire was burning. Sparks flew up into the night sky, and the heat was welcome in the dark night. As Draco scrambled to pull the blanket over himself – the fire only heated one side of him – he saw the man sitting on the other side of the fire. Dancing flames were reflected in round lenses, and there again was that mop of hair. A messy bird’s nest of hair that Draco hadn’t seen in years.

"Potter? What are you doing here?"

"Thanks are customary at this point, Malfoy."

"You’re the one who found me? And…" Draco looked down at his healed leg. "Thank you."

Potter’s voice sounded harsh, as though he hadn’t used it for a while, but a different kind of harshness ran through it when he asked, "What the hell are you doing here?" He paused, and Draco looked up to see Potter staring at the sky as though trying to divine mysteries. "Did you fall out of the tree or out of the sky?"

"The tree. Stupid tree."

"Don’t blame it for your own stupidity."

Anger curled through Draco like a flame. "I’ve had a difficult day, OK? Thank you for healing my leg, but I’d like to go home now." He pulled himself up and tried to stand, but humiliatingly couldn’t even get upright, and slumped back down to the ground. "I just want to go home," he said in more of a whimper.

"And I’d like nothing more than for you to go, and leave me alone, but as well as stupid, you’re also hurt. I set your leg – Hermione makes me practise all my healing spells every time she sees me, so really you’ve got her to thank – but you still need some time to recover. You’re not going anywhere, not right now."

Draco was sure he heard Potter mutter ‘more’s the pity’ at the end of this. Charming. But then Potter’s words caught up with him.

"Every time Granger sees you? She knows where you are?"

Something shifted in Potter’s face, like a shutter coming down. "I let my friends know where I was. Eventually."

The press had run daily stories about the disappearance of their golden boy, but after a few months, it was only weekly, and once a few years with no news of Potter had passed, it was only the occasional piece wondering where’d he’d gone. Draco had bought every edition at the beginning, scouring the lines for some clue about what had happened to Potter. And every time he’d seen one of Potter’s friends, he’d wondered what they knew. Once he had even tried to ask Granger but she had looked blankly at him and said she was sorry. The acrid burn of bile rose in his throat, and Draco swallowed.

"I guess I wasn’t a friend, then."

They sat in silence as the fire crackled between them.

Draco watched the way the flames clung and danced along the wood, sending up parts of themselves to the skies.

He felt a bit like them, curling and moving and destroying. He wished he could escape too, a feeling that intensified as he became aware of another humiliation to come.

"I need…"

Potter looked up, but Draco avoided meeting his gaze.

"I need to pee. And last time I tried to stand up I couldn’t even manage that."

Potter stood, letting the blanket draped around his shoulders fall. Even in the dark, in flickering firelight, Draco could tell that his clothes were worn and messy. Not that his own were much better: his were torn, streaked with dirt and blood. Potter came around the fire and helped Draco up. Merlin, Draco felt as though his own body were made of butter; there was no strength in his limbs at all. Potter ducked his head under Draco’s arm and draped it across his shoulder. Together they made their slow way to the edge of the small clearing.

"I’m not getting it out for you," Potter said. He was close enough that Draco could feel the heat of his embarrassed cheeks. With considerable difficulty, Draco managed to pee while still being held upright by Potter. The entire time Potter turned his head in the other direction, but it was still a terrible experience.

When they made their way back to the fire just as slowly and painfully as before, they both said nothing. Draco wrapped himself in his blanket again, turned his head away from Potter, and closed his eyes. For the second time that day he wished for sleep, but this time it did not come as swiftly. He hoped though, that lying like this would be enough for Potter to leave him alone. For a long time he listened to the fire, the insects of the night, and the occasional rustle of movement from the other side of the fire. He thought of old conversations, long ago, about death and feeling lost. And then he remembered the sting of being forgotten. When he did drop off, it was with tears in his eyes for being trapped in this place with this man, of all men.

*

Draco woke with a scream at the looming figure of a man leaning over him, and hands on his leg and arm.

Instantly, Potter sprang back as though burned. A heavy warmth remained where his hands had been. Draco flexed his toes, but nothing seemed untoward.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I was checking on you."

Irritation gave Draco’s voice an edge. "You shouldn’t do that to someone who can’t defend themself!"

"I wasn’t attacking you, I only wanted to—"

"Check on me, you said. Everything to your satisfaction?"

"Your leg seems to be better than it was yesterday. And your arm has healed nicely."

Draco attempted to sit up, and unlike the day before, it was possible without too much grunting.

"I do feel a bit better."

Potter had to help him stand, but then Draco pushed aside the offer of any further assistance, Summoning instead a large stick to support him as he hobbled off into the bushes for a moment alone. At least that was a humiliation he didn’t need to repeat.

As he leant against a tree, steam rising from his hot pee in the cool morning air, Draco wondered what on earth he was going to do next. Every part of him ached; his leg, although healed, didn’t feel right – Potter was no Healer – and although he’d only recently woken up, he felt exhausted. The nearest anything was miles away, and Draco doubted there was a neat fireplace for Flooing nearby, or that he could manage to stay on a broom, either. Maybe Potter had a Portkey out of here.

When Draco returned, slowly and carefully on his throbbing leg, to the clearing where they’d slept, Potter had already rolled up the blankets and lit a small fire. A pot of water stood on an iron trivet across the fire, and Draco hoped beyond hope that Potter had coffee on him.

Potter though, was not tending to the fire nor sitting by it. He was instead standing by a tree on the other side of the clearing. Something about the way he stood there halted Draco both in thought and movement; Draco stopped and tried to work out what it was about the way Potter stood there.

In the cool pale of the morning light Potter looked like a solid tree himself. Being out here in the hills he obviously lived an active life; his body was thicker and stronger than Draco remembered from school. His hair, ever wild, was longer too, falling and sticking up in thick and heavy clumps. Potter’s clothes were all the colours of bark and earth, a range of browns, greys and blacks. For one moment Draco thought it looked as though Potter, too, had grown out of the earth and leaf mould.

It wasn’t his clothes though, that made Draco stop and stare. Potter had both hands on the tree, a little as he had on Draco, and his eyes were closed. The thing that stood out, Draco realised, was that Potter was absolutely motionless. Was he supporting the tree, or the tree him? It was hard to tell.

With what could only be described as tenderness, Potter broke free of the tree. First he took a deep breath, taking in the air and cool around him, then his eyes opened, and finally he patted the tree gently before stepping back. A strange shiver travelled across the back of Draco’s neck, and his aches and pains reasserted themselves all at once. He faltered where he stood, feeling again his exhaustion and the need to sit down. In that moment of shiver it had felt as though a spell had been broken. The sharp up and down of a bird singing nearby broke through Draco’s thoughts. Had he heard it before? Or had it only started when Potter broke contact with the tree?

Potter, as though spurred on by Draco’s thoughts, reached out and stroked the bark of the tree, just once. It looked as though he were communicating with the tree. But what? And to a _tree_?

Draco’s leg trembled, and he decided he didn’t care what Potter was doing. He stumbled back to the rolled-up blanket by the fire, and collapsed into a sitting position next to it. At the noise Potter turned.

"Do you have to crash around like that?"

"My leg hurts."

Potter’s face fell. "Yeah, about that. I _think_ I did an OK job of setting it. I’d advise you to get it looked at properly though."

"I’m grateful that you turned up when you did, but yes, I’d like to go to a Healer. Only… I walked here, but now…"

Potter’s eyes flitted away from Draco, and he wondered what Potter was avoiding.

"Not many Healers around here."

"I gathered. If I can just get back to London. Or Marseille, or where ever else is near here."

"Don’t you have a Portkey?"

Draco gave a short laugh. "As if they’d hand one out to me!"

"Oh. I used to get as many as I—" Potter stopped, presumably once he caught sight of Draco’s incredulous stare. "Ah right, special treatment." He looked crestfallen.

"Or maybe I’m the one getting the ‘special’ treatment? It wasn’t easy getting the paperwork through to leave Britain, and I can only take pre-booked official Portkeys. You know what they say: once a Death Eater, always a—"

Draco had already begun to roll up his sleeve to reveal his faded Mark, but Potter blanched and shook his head.

"Without a Portkey, the nearest village is a three-day hike away. That is, it would take three days if your leg was OK. And I need to be getting back. You really don’t have a Portkey?" He eyed Draco up. "And I’m guessing flying’s out of the question?"

"Are you being deliberately obtuse?"

"Probably." Potter sighed and came to sit on his side of the fire. "What were you thinking, heading out into the wild without a Portkey?"

"I was thinking I would spend some time looking around for— Well, never mind what for, it’s all useless now. I wasn’t going to stay too long, I planned to head back within a day or two. I’ve got food in my bag. I wasn’t expecting to fall out of a tree, break my leg, or meet you."

"No?"

For a moment Draco was reminded of Luna Lovegood and her habit of asking simple questions. A thought occurred to him. "So if Portkeys are so easy to come by, do you have one spare that I could use?"

Potter pulled a face. "No."

"No?"

"No, I er, I burned them all."

"You _burned_ them all."

"Yep. A great big bonfire. Some of the flames were purple, and there were a few explosions."

"But why?" It had taken Draco a month’s savings to pay for his Portkey. How many Galleons had Potter sent up in smoke? Although he supposed that Potter had got them all for free. Or maybe he was authorised to perform the _Portus_ spell?

"I didn’t want any temptation. To go back."

"Of course, when you ran off."

"I didn’t run off."

Draco merely raised his eyebrows. Potter had disappeared overnight, leaving only a misspelled note for his friends. No one, not even Granger or Weasley according to the _Prophet_ , had heard from him for months after.

"Oh, OK, I did run off. All I wanted – all I want – was to be left alone. Anyway, what does it matter. I don’t have any Portkeys. And before you ask, I can’t make one either. Can you?"

"I could lose my wand if I tried!" Having his wand snapped had been recommended as the standard penalty for breaking one of the terms laid down for him at his trial, after the war. At least Potter had waited to disappear until after he’d provided a statement for the Wizengamot. A cold river of dread washed through Draco at the thought of what might have happened otherwise. Draco’s heart stuttered at the thought, and he took in a breath to steady himself. No wonder he was so fixated on making wands: it was one way to take away the threat of losing his own.

"Fine." Potter started rooting through his battered old bag, his head bent as he thrust around in the old canvas with what Draco considered more force than necessary.

The bubbling sound of water boiling filled the silence between them.

"What were you doing with that tree?"

Potter pulled out some cups and a tin of what Draco hoped would contain caffeine in one form or another. He began to methodically prepare a filter over a cup – it was coffee then – before he spoke.

"The tree?" He opened the tin, fetched a spoon from his bag, and measured out some coffee into the filter. Draco clenched his teeth together as he waited. Potter had years of experience irritating him, there was no reason he should have expected any change on that front, strange half-friendship in eighth year notwithstanding. "I was checking in with it."

" _Checking in with it?_ What does that even mean?"

"Yes." Potter poured hot water over the coffee grounds. The both watched as the water swirled, then slowly began to drain through. Draco was torn between gritting his teeth again at Potter’s slowness, and salivating at the thought of a cup of coffee. "I wanted to check how it was coping with the fire."

"Were you… talking to it?" Maybe talking to Potter would be like talking to Luna. Draco had practice at that, as he liked ice cream and had worked hard to make amends to those his family had formerly held prisoner.

"Trees can’t talk, everyone knows that."

"But you were checking in with it."

"Yes."

It was a pity really, that Draco didn’t have more strength or he could have found something to throw at Potter. He counted to ten to see if that helped, and he did feel slightly calmer.

"Is there enough coffee for me, too?" he asked instead of asking about the tree again. "I have a cup, in my bag, if there is." Maybe once he had some coffee in him this would all make sense. "And some bread."

Potter smiled. "Great. And thanks. I was going to share mine with you, but that would be easier. If you don’t mind waiting for me to make it." He paused, as though weighing up what he wanted to say next. "Lighting fires with wood from a tree is tricky."

"It is?"

"Yes, it is when," he lowered his voice to a whisper, "it’s wood from that tree in particular."

Draco looked at the fire. "You can tell which tree this wood came from?"

Potter nodded. "Well, it’s not too hard to work out when the limb is lying beneath the tree, is it? Oak wood, and oak tree", he said pointing at the fire and then the tree. "Plus it… felt like it belonged."

Maybe it was the lack of caffeine, or the bump to the… everything the day before, but Draco felt the cogs beginning to turn in his mind, and cursed himself for being so slow on the uptake. "You can feel the trees?"

A wary look crossed Potter’s face.

Draco cast about for some way to make Potter open up. "It’s only… do you know a man called Guillaume?"

Potter’s face unpinched a little. "I do. Long brown hair tied back, very wiry… is that who you’re thinking of?"

"I met him in Marseille. In fact your friend, Longbottom," Draco wondered if this was true, if Potter had friends anymore, but he soldiered on, "sent me to him."

"You sought out Guillaume? And Neville sent you?" Potter sounded worried. He muttered to himself: "I thought he didn’t know…" then fell silent. He gave Draco a sharp look through narrowed eyes. "Why? Why did you go to him?"

"Because… I’m looking for, er, some wood."

"Some wood?"

"Er… magical wood. Or wood that has good magical properties." Draco didn’t know why he didn’t tell the truth, explain about Ollivander, his apprenticeship, and needing to feel the soul of a tree. He supposed it felt a bit too personal, telling Potter all his troubles. "I asked Longbottom, he told me Guillaume is the wood man, but Guillaume sent me into the actual fucking woods, where I got bitten by mosquitoes and fell out of a fucking tree."

"You weren’t looking for me?"

"Why would I be looking for you? I haven’t spoken to you in years. Do you still think everything is about you?"

"What? No! I… I didn’t think anyone knew where I was at the moment."

Draco stared at him as though he were mad. "And no one does. It’s the big mystery of the wizarding world: where is Harry Potter?"

Instead of puffing out more and shouting at him, which was what Draco expected, Potter came to crouch by him and held out his hand. "Cup, please." When Draco didn’t move, Potter said, "Come on, you want some coffee don’t you?"

Draco handed over his cup and watched as Potter threw the used coffee grounds under the trees, then set up a fresh filter over his cup. It was only once they both had cups of coffee in their hands and Potter was sat beside Draco that he continued.

"I’ve got a little cabin here, further into the forest. It’s pretty basic, but it’s closer than the nearest village or road." Potter held his cup tightly in both hands, his fingers – broken dirty nails, calloused, thick fingers – wrapped around it. "You can rest up there, heal a bit more, and sooner or later I’ll get an owl from Hermione and I can let her know to send help or a Portkey for you." Potter spoke so quietly that Draco had lean in towards him to hear what he was saying.

His mind shifted through what Potter had said. "Sooner or later?"

"She tends to owl about once a week. I don’t keep an owl, I usually send my reply back with hers."

Draco thought over Potter’s offer. Potter obviously didn’t want Draco around, but there wasn’t much choice.

"OK."

"Is that it?"

"OK, thank you for the offer, I will take you up on it."

"Good." Potter sat back and sipped his coffee. "Now tell me, why are you looking for wood?"

"I… need some. To… make a new wand."

The sun had risen far enough in the sky that the morning chill was beginning to fade to an even warmth. The sky was much paler at this time of the day, Draco noticed as he stared up into it, not wanting to meet Potter’s gaze. Too much time spent with Legilimens for Draco to look directly at someone when withholding a truth.

"I’m apprenticed to Ollivander, did you know that?" Draco risked a glance over at Potter, who shook his head. "I need to make a special wand…"

Potter was looking thoughtfully at him, but when he spoke it was obviously not Draco’s motives that were on his mind.

"What exactly did Guillaume tell you?"

"That I would find what I needed in the woods, that he was merely the middle man – a sales man – and that the person to ask was the man who knew all the trees in the forest. I thought I was looking for an old French man who was a bit crazy."

Potter let out a surprised burst of laughter, but it had a bitter ring to it. "I’m not French but I can’t vouch for the crazy part."

For some reason Draco couldn’t quite fathom, it hurt to hear Potter talk like this.

"Could you help me?"

"Maybe." Potter shrugged. "This isn’t a precise art, I tend to travel around a bit, see how the trees are doing, and then it depends what comes up. I tell you what: come back to mine and rest while we wait to hear from Hermione, and I’ll see what happens in that time."

"That’s pretty vague."

"I think it’s best you stay with me for now. I can’t have you hacking away at trees or handling bits of wood you don’t understand. Sorry, but I feel… responsible for these woods now. At least the magical part, anyway."

It stung, the idea that Draco couldn’t be trusted with wood he didn’t understand. Potter had also managed to near-enough echo Ollivander. This was why Draco had been economical with details: he didn’t want to talk about what a failure he was. Certainly not with Potter.

Lukewarm but still good, the coffee was strong just the way Draco liked it. He drank slowly, watching as Potter packed up their small camp. When he put his cup down, he ran his hand through the dry leaves beside him. They were hard, smooth-edged, and thicker than the leaves in the woods at home. He couldn’t work out what they were, and it was frustrating: he’d spent a year learning the trees of the British Isles but this one was new to him.

"I’ve got a question," he said as Potter put out the fire with magic. Wandless magic, Draco noticed. Perhaps the rumours about Potter’s greatness had an element of truth to them. The sod. It had been a very tightly controlled fire, he’d noticed: Potter had cleared a wide circle of bare earth around it, and in addition it was contained with a spell Draco didn’t recognise.

"Is it about why I left?" Potter sounded as though he might start grunting like an angry caveman, or run off again if it was.

"No. It’s about the trees."

Potter softened slightly. "Fine. Go on, then."

"You said this was an oak tree earlier, but these don’t look like oak leaves to me."

Potter put down his bag, and his shoulders relaxed as he smiled up at the tree. "It’s not like an English oak. It’s a holm oak."

"A what?"

" _Quercus ilex_. Also known as a holm oak, or a holly oak, or the evergreen oak." Potter counted off the names on his fingers. "They’re great – grow in all shapes and sizes, and the wood’s really strong. Oh, and I disinfected your wounds with boiled acorn water, too."

The name rang a bell, but not from anything he’d learned from Ollivander. It nagged at him, this bit of unfinished knowledge, but Potter was now standing and looking at Draco as though he wanted him to stand.

"Time to go?"

"Yes. I made you a walking stick, to help with your leg." Potter presented Draco with a stick that had been leaning against a tree. If was obviously a branch from one of the trees, but all bark had been removed and it was smooth to the touch as though polished. One end had a kink in it that fitted perfectly when Draco grasped it.

"It’s beautiful." Indeed, Draco turned it in his hand with a wandmaker’s eye. Following the natural shape of a piece of wood was an art in itself, and he could see the minute ways it had been reshaped to work better as a walking aid. Most of all though, it had a simplicity and elegance that he had strived to achieve himself in the past. Not always with this degree of success. "Did you make it today?"

"While you were sleeping. I wake up early." Potter smiled shyly at him, then became a flurry of movement as he helped haul Draco up, and pulled his own bag onto his shoulder.

As they walked away from their camping spot, Potter stopped suddenly, causing Draco to nearly crash into him.

"Careful!"

"I’ve just realised, you did come to the woods to find me. Not as Harry Potter, but as the crazy old French wood man." Potter chuckled to himself. "Zis way," he said, in a terrible French accent.

"Very funny." Draco leant into his stick, feeling out the limits of his leg, and followed the definitely-not-French-but-who-knew-about-crazy Potter deeper into the woods.

*

The ground became less steep the further they went on; as far as Draco could tell, they were heading into a gently curving valley. His leg continued to pulse with pain, and now a sharp shooting sensation jarred his left hip as he walked. Although there was less chance of tripping, each step seemed harder than the last. At least away from the rocky exposed ground it was shady, and therefore a little cooler than his trek the day before.

"I know these trees," Draco said as they passed through a stand of slender birch trees. He stopped and held onto one while he took a couple of deep lungfuls of air. "Birch. Pretty." The words came out in breathy gasps, and Draco cursed himself for showing how weak he was feeling. He was falling behind Potter, again. Damn his sore body and painful, shaky leg.

Potter stopped and turned. "Another break?"

The worst thing was how damn understanding Potter sounded each time. At this rate, Draco would have ground his teeth flat by the time they reached Potter’s shack. He did, however, need a rest. Even if he resented Potter having to look after him like this. This time, instead of saying he was fine, he nodded and slid with no grace at all into a sitting position on the ground.

He moved his leg into as comfortable a position as possible, and wished – not for the first time – he had some pain potion on him. It throbbed, but the sharp pain in his hip eased a little. Potter mercifully didn’t say anything as Draco’s breathing returned to normal.

A breeze cooled the sweat on his skin a little; by midday, the heat had once more become unbearable. The change in temperature possible within just a few hours was almost as hard to adjust to as the heat itself. As Draco cooled down slightly, he was able to take in his surroundings a little better. Bright green leaves swayed on thin, striped-white trunks. He’d always liked birch trees; in his mind, they always seemed as though they could up sticks and walk away whenever they fancied.

"Ollivander doesn’t use birch for wands. Too flighty, he says."

"Really?" Potter came to sit beside Draco, and offered him some water. "I know all these trees well, but my knowledge of wand-making is a bit patchy."

"He has opinions on lots of types of wood. He says oak is a truly noble wood." Draco took a sip of water. "Merlin’s wand was supposed to be oak."

"What about you? What are your opinions on wood?"

Draco blinked and looked at Potter. No one asked him that question, not even Ollivander. He thought about it, about all the wands he’d made that had remained lifeless without cores, all the wands he’d split or ruined or that had burst into flames.

"I like the fruit trees: apple, and cherry in particular." He liked the _idea_ of them, anyway. He sighed, and forced what he hoped was an optimistic smile on his face. "And one day I’d love to try to use wood from an orange tree."

"I…" Potter paused as though he had something difficult to say.

"Oh go on, spit it out, whatever it is."

"It’s only… I was a bit surprised when you said you were his apprentice. After…"

Draco should have been expecting that. Potter had been quiet as he’d guided Draco through the trees; he’d probably been thinking about this the whole time. "After he was prisoner in my house?"

"Yes, that. And also," Potter gave him that odd, piercing look Draco remembered from eighth year, "I didn’t know you were interested."

"When you took my wand, and I had to use my mother’s, I realised how much my wand was… part of me."

Potter seemed to squirm slightly at the mention of his taking of Draco’s wand. "Sorry it took a while."

"It’s fine." When Draco died, that’s what they’d inscribe on his tomb: _I’m fine_. He sighed again. "It is, really. We sorted it all out already."

"We did," Potter said, and Draco wondered if he remembered that quiet day by the lake, too.

"I wanted to work with hope, and possibility, and the joy of magic. I wanted to create things." Draco didn’t know why he was telling Potter. Talking in such mawkish terms usually embarrassed him, but considering he’d come across Potter communing with a tree that morning it didn’t seem too bad.

"That sounds… that sounds good." And then Potter gave him a smile, the kind of smile he’d only given Draco once or twice before. The kind of smile Draco had stored away, one full of sunshine, and damn it, this was why Potter was so bloody loved. Draco looked away; it was the kind of smile that had burned him, before.

"Some of this wood is magical. I mean, these trees, this part of the woods."

Draco nodded. "I felt it."

"You said you were looking for some magical wood to make a special wand?"

Now it was Draco’s turn to squirm. "I…"

Potter handed him a stick from the ground. Bark was peeling from it, and the newly-revealed wood at the edge of the bark was pale. "What do you think of this?"

"It’s a stick?"

"And?"

Draco felt as though he were back in the back room at Ollivander’s again, being tested. "And?"

"What do you sense, magically?"

Draco could try, at least. He closed his eyes and ran a thumb over the peeling bark and smooth wood. "It feels…" He took a deep breath, closed his eyes tighter, frowned in concentration. The only thing he could sense was the hollowness of his own failure. "Nothing," he said, opening his eyes. "I feel nothing. It’s just a dead bit of wood." He flung it back onto the forest floor, and stared defiantly at Potter.

Betrayal crossed Potter’s face. "Are you even apprenticed to him?"

"Yes. No."

"I knew it! You’ve come out here to find me, to expose me or bring me back or sell some cheap story to the _Prophet_!"

"Oh get over yourself, Potter."

"I just want to be alone. Why can’t I be alone?"

"Sorry to have fallen out a tree and inconvenienced you."

"Guillaume’s usually good at keeping people away. Why didn’t he keep you away?"

"I don’t fucking know. And I didn’t come here for you. I came because Ollivander threw me out! Told me I didn’t get the soul of trees, and not to come back until I did!"

"Oh."

"Oh, exactly. Happy now? I don’t really want to go around telling the whole world what a big failure I continue to be."

"So you really are his apprentice?"

"Yes. I can identify most woods from grain and texture, I know how to turn and carve wood, I know about the magical properties of wood and magical cores… I just can’t put it all together and make a working wand."

"Because you don’t feel the soul of trees?"

"That’s what he told me."

Potter stood suddenly, and walked up and down between two trees without speaking. He stopped, touched the nearest tree for a second, then looked at Draco. "You’re not a failure. A stuck up, lying idiot maybe. But not a failure."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"I don’t care about making you feel better. I care about having my space – my own space, with no one else in it—"

"I got that, thanks," Draco muttered.

"And I care about honesty. I can’t believe you lied _among the trees_."

"What are you on about?"

"Birch trees, too."

"You’re not making sense."

"Birch purifies, drives out evil. Brings life. It _is_ honesty." Potter nodded at Draco’s staff, "Just like oak is strength and patience. You should know that."

"I, er…" Draco had read up on all the trees, and Ollivander had little rhymes about most of them. "Ollivander doesn’t like birch, so I haven’t learned much about them."

"Since we are stuck with each other, I suppose I could help you. Enough for you to hear the trees a little, maybe."

"You’d really do that for me?"

"For you… for the trees. No more lies or half-truths from now. OK?"

"OK." Draco couldn’t believe that was all Potter had to say on the matter. Potter, it seemed to him, was quite tree-like himself in some way. His head appeared to be half with Draco, and half in the trees.

Potter picked up his bag and waited until Draco had done the same and pulled himself up again. "We should get moving. Another half hour and we’ll be there."

The conversation was obviously over, at least for now.

*

The cabin was hidden amongst beech trees. Its base was built from large stones, but weather-darkened boards clad most of it, and it sank into the shadows as a result. Above it, vaulted screens of green grew from arched beech branches, and a carpet of old leaves smoothed the forest floor. Draco’s heart felt too-large for his chest as he looked around. He had been imagining a sad little shack, and it wasn’t anything special, but the setting… it was beautiful.

A door with a window either side, a veranda with a two chairs and a table, and just visible, a stone chimney out the top of the roof.

Draco’s limp had become more pronounced as the day went on, although at least as they moved closer to a valley floor the ground had become less steep. He’d still yelped when he tripped over roots, and he hoped that inside the cabin there would be somewhere to sit, sleep, and bathe.

"I haven’t been inside for a while," Potter said when they reached the door. "In the summer I er, I prefer to sleep out under the trees."

He really was the wild tree man, Draco decided. "Of course you do."

The inside of the cabin was gloomy compared to the yellow-green warmth of the forest outside. As Draco’s eyes adjusted he saw a round table by the window to the right, a fireplace set up for cooking at the rear of the room, and a sink to the left of the door. Although ‘sink’ was too formal a word: it was a stone trough with a bucket below, and a wall-mounted container for water above. Cupboards lined the walls to the right, and a heavy dresser filled with mismatched crockery sat to the left. A solitary and very bashed armchair sat beside the fire. Stepping into the room, Draco saw that almost everything in the room was made of wood.

"It’s, er, charming. Very rustic."

Potter led him to the door at the back of the room, beside the fire, which led to a bedroom, containing a bed at the centre of the back wall, a green and purple curtained-off wall to the left, and a small desk and chair by the single window to the right. The entire room was leaf-shaded and cool.

"I don’t see a bathroom," Draco said. He gestured at the curtains. "Is it through there?"

"Oh. No, I don’t have a bathroom. I get water from the stream for washing and drinking. There’s an outhouse in the woods behind the house, and er, I’ve got a tin bath I use in the winter. In the summer I bathe in the pools here."

Draco wasn’t really surprised by this news, either. He was however, more disappointed than he wanted to show that there was no chance of sinking into a hot bath, or even of washing off the sweat and dirt of the past few days in a cooling shower.

Thankfully, dinner that night was less frugal than Draco had been expecting. Potter made a delicate salad, which they ate along with a mushroom risotto, flavoured with herbs Potter had collected on their way to his home.

"I’m going to sleep under the stars," Potter said, only a hint of blush betraying any embarrassment at the pronouncement. "So the bed’s all yours."

Exhaustion filled every part of Draco’s body. As soon as they two of them had cleaned the plates and pans, he excused himself. It was strange to think that it was Potter’s bed he was climbing into, but the aches and pains of his body didn’t care. Draco drifted off to sleep under a musty blanket, the dry-warm smell of wood all around him, wishing for his duvet in Greg’s spare room.

*

When he dreamt that night, it was of the past.

"Malfoy."

Draco looked up. He liked sitting by the lake, as the other students usually left him alone. But here was Potter, his cloak wrapped tightly around him against the cold.

"Potter."

"Can I… can I join you?"

Rather than answer, Draco moved along the rock he was sitting on so there was space for Potter. He turned back to the dark lake waters, the sky reflected in their glassy stillness.

Together they sat in silence, watching the slow passage of clouds in the sky, the odd silhouette of a bird high above. The world seemed a collection of lines, black and white, and they the only dots of colour in it.

"I wanted to find you," Potter said eventually. "I was hoping I would."

"How did you find me?"

Draco heard the smile in Potter’s voice as he answered. "I thought about where no one else would want to go."

The cold held Draco’s head like a vice, and yet he could feel Potter’s warmth – or maybe just his solid presence – beside him. "I like it out here," he said. "Bloody cold though."

"Warming Charm?" Potter offered, and Draco nodded. His own had worn off in the time they had been sitting together, and although Draco liked how bracing the cold was, after a while it was nice not to have fingers like icicles.

Potter’s elbow briefly stuck into Draco’s side as he retrieved his wand, but Draco didn’t see Potter cast the spell. A soft glow that became warmth spread from the centre of his back until it had reached fingers and toes. Draco closed his eyes, and sighed deeply into the feeling, his body sagging briefly as he sank into it. "Oh, that’s good," he said. "You’re good at that."

"Thanks." Potter shifted at Draco’s side as he returned his wand to within the folds of his clothing. "I’ve been tinkering with it, trying to work out how to get it to spread more slowly."

"Why were you looking for me?"

"I’ve got something of yours. I want to return it."

A thrill passed through Draco’s arms, all the way to his fingertips. He waited.

Potter’s elbow jabbed him again, and this time it wasn’t his own wand he pulled out, but Draco’s. Draco hadn’t seen his wand since… he didn’t want to think about that night.

"Thank you." He curled his fingers around it, feeling the weight so much better in his hand than he ever had with his replacement wand. He remembered again the joy of first using it, and waved it through the air so it left a trail of sparks behind it.

"What do you think you’ll do, after this? After school?" Potter asked once Draco had stowed the wand safely under his robes.

Draco turned to Potter. "I don’t have a clue."

Potter smiled back at him. "It’s so good to hear that, because I don’t have a clue, either. My friends have it all mapped out, everything they want to achieve in the rest of their lives. I honestly think that Hermione will make it all the way to Minister of Magic one day."

Draco considered this. He could imagine Granger aiming for the top job, then learning every single thing she needed to get it. Would she make a good Minister? He hated to admit it, but she probably would.

"I thought it would be like coming home," Potter said, "but too much has changed."

"Hogwarts isn’t home anymore," Draco said. "But then, I don’t think anywhere is."

"No," said Potter.

And then they sat there, the two of them, alone, with their futures lying blank ahead of them. The lake was inky black, and yet still reflected the silver white of the sky.

Draco woke into the darkness of the night, and felt a lingering sadness. What had it been, between the two of them? A friendship? An understanding? Potter seemed barely able to tolerate him now, and was clearly biding time before he could get Draco to leave.

He turned over in the unfamiliar bed, and stared at the dark window. As soon as he could, he’d leave. He knew when he wasn’t really welcome.

*

Potter’s life in the woods was built, it turned out, on a series of routines. He collected water every day, tended a small vegetable garden, touched a series of trees for his own wild-tree-man reasons, read about trees and plants, made the odd potion (including, to Draco’s relief, one that helped with his pain), napped when it was hot, and also bathed to keep cool.

The first day Potter invited Draco to join him at the river, or wherever it was he bathed, Draco declined. Potter had said it was at the bottom of a narrow gorge running into the valley, and Draco couldn’t face another steep walk down, or the climb back up. As it was he ached all over, and his leg still throbbed. While Potter was out Draco washed as best he could with a cloth and some lukewarm water, and by the time Potter came back – rolling behind him a container of water – he was dressed in a fresh linen shirt and a pair of shorts that revealed his pale legs. The one that had been broken was still swollen, the skin black and blue with bruising, but at least it was pointing in the right direction and was straight.

Draco, accustomed to rushing from Greg’s to Ollivanders, fitting in friends and family in the week, wondered how he would fill the time at first. But then Potter showed him how to weed in the garden, and which tomatoes were ready to pick. The garden was in a small clearing, and the sun shone down in a relentless haze of heat.

"Wear your hat," Potter said, the first day. "You’ll need it."

Draco in the cool of the morning ignored Potter. He decided he couldn’t bear another day of sweating under the grubby rim of his hat, so left it behind.

Potter went off to do whatever potty things he did during the day, leaving Draco with a water bottle, some bread and cheese, and instructions to find shade or head back to the cabin if he got too hot.

The garden was small, yet teeming with tomatoes, beans, courgettes, peppers, and squashes. Leaves grew in rows from the ground, presumably root vegetables Draco couldn’t name from their tops alone. Amongst the vegetables were rows of flowers too. Insects buzzed lazily from flower to flower as Draco sifted through the fine grey-brown soil to root out weeds. He shifted his weight; he had been able to find a way to sit and rest his leg, but all the pressure seemed to go on his hip instead.

Once his eyelids began to feel heavy, and still no sign of Potter, Draco decided to head back to the cabin. He ate his bread and cheese on the small veranda, drank more of his water, then sat back to watch the barely-moving leaves in the trees. The bird song here, he had noticed, was clearest at dawn and dusk. Right now all he could hear was the chirp of insects, a rhythm that became part of the close, still heat of the afternoon.

Draco returned to the bedroom, and it already looked more familiar, less strange. He flopped onto the bed, and, before he knew it, had settled into a nap.

When he woke, the light outside had changed, the air was fractionally cooler, and he could hear Potter in the other room. An enticing smell came through the door, and Draco took his time in waking. He stretched, he enjoyed the floppy sensation of his rested body.

Potter seemed more relaxed, too, as he poured them both some water. They sat at the table by the window, the mosquitoes already active outside.

"This isn’t from the same place you wash, is it?" Draco said as he gulped down his glass of water in the dwindling light at the end of the day.

"What? No. It’s from a different stream. It, and the one I wash in, both run into the river at the bottom of the valley."

"Good, because I’m hot enough not to care today, but I don’t want to come down with some horrible illness." Especially not considering Potter’s outhouse set-up.

"The trees filter the water for me."

Draco decided to let this one go. Potter seemed fairly obsessed with the trees, and the water was clear and refreshing.

"I’ve got something you can put on your skin," Potter said. "For your sunburn."

Draco’s hand went to his face. His nose and cheeks felt hot to the touch, but he had been sleeping in the heat. Surely that was all.

"I am not sunburned."

"No? Well I have something you can put on your, er, slightly sun-touched skin then." Potter rifled through one of the dresser drawers, the pulled out a small jar. "It’ll help."

Draco took the ointment without further comment. When he looked in the mirror that night, he saw an unmistakable pink tint to his skin and he cursed Potter for being right.

The next day, he wore his hat.

*

The water was a lot heavier to carry than Draco could have thought possible. Even empty the wooden barrel had weighed a ton, but filled with water he might as well have been trying to move one of the trees. It could be rolled on its side, or Potter had a little Muggle trolley to help, but amongst the trees, rocks, roots, odd little plants and occasional animal burrow neither method worked that well.

"Can’t I use magic?" Draco asked, pulling his wand out.

"No."

"No?"

Potter gave him a look that spoke clearly of how much he wished Draco would bugger off and stop interfering with how he lived his life. "Trees don’t do their thing if I carry it with magic."

Draco tucked his wand away, and sighed. It always came back to the trees. "Are you making that up?"

"Why would I make that up?"

"Because you’re just standing there, and I’ve got a dodgy leg and now I’m drenched in sweat." Draco’s hair was wet – he could feel the coolness of the air on the back of his neck – and his shirt clung to his body in a most undignified way. His leg had buckled twice under him, but he didn’t think Potter had noticed, no matter how loudly Draco had said ‘ow’.

"I do this every day, remember."

"I bet you secretly use magic."

"There are no secrets here, remember?"

Sodding birch trees. "Yes, I remember."

"We can take it in turns while you’re here. You do want to earn your keep, don’t you?"

Draco wanted a proper bath, and a mountain of Luna’s chocolate ice cream. He wanted to learn whatever tree magic Potter knew, then sod off back to civilisation. "Sooner you get an owl from Granger the better."

"You know the way from here," Potter said, as though Draco hadn’t spoken. And then he stuck his hands in his pockets, and wandered off. Draco could hear him whistling as he disappeared between the trees.

"Bloody Harry Potter," Draco muttered. But he heaved the wooden barrel over another root and continued on his journey back to the cabin.

*

When Draco woke up the next morning, he realised that washing with a cloth and small amount of water was not enough. In the privacy of the bedroom, Draco had to admit to himself that he stank. He’d found a bit of an… aroma around a man attractive in the past, but he’d definitely crossed some line between manly and animal in the past twenty-four hours.

Thankfully, when Draco came out of the room it was to find that Potter had already fetched the water, and was nowhere to be seen. Presumably he was off, walking among the trees.

Carrying one of the soft sheets that Potter used as a towel, along with his staff, Draco set off to find the bathing stream that Potter had told him about. He seemed to remember Potter saying that the place he bathed was the next stream after the one where he filled his water barrel. As Draco stepped over the stream that cut through the forest floor, he couldn’t imagine how he could bathe in something like that.

Draco’s walking slowed as the amount of rocks on the ground increased. A narrow path had been formed, presumably by Potter’s feet over the years, but it twisted and turned through the trees. And then it began to travel steeply down the side of an incline, and Draco had to hold onto branches and trunks to stop himself slipping and tripping as he went. The lower he traveled, he noticed, the more he saw holm oaks. They reminded him of Potter in how they grew from any crack or crevice, their roots wrapping around rocks, their branches veering off in all directions. Wild and untamed, they seemed to be climbing the landscape.

The sound of running water stopped him. No, not running water: falling water. Taking extra care – he did not wish to be catapulted into a river or rapids – Draco made his way to the source of the sound. Deep below where he stood, beneath the holm oaks, in a gully cut through rocks by water over more time than he could imagine, a pool of water was fed by three small waterfalls. One fell fast, a clean outpouring of water and white splash, while the others ran more gently over smooth mossy rocks. The pool itself was bigger than the whole of Potter’s cabin, and the water of the pool was so clear that Draco could make out every stone at its bottom, and the quick flick of fish. His eyes though, weren’t on the fish.

Naked and brown, Harry Potter stood in the middle of the pool. His back was turned to Draco, and the water reached the bottom of his back.

He’d definitely found the bathing pool, then.

Draco swallowed, disarmed by the sight of Potter naked. After carting the water barrel around, those muscles in Potter’s arms and shoulders shouldn’t have been a surprise. And yet they were. Potter didn’t appear bulky when wearing clothes. But he was definitely not wearing clothes now.

As he watched, Potter brought his hands together and raised his arms above his head, and at the same moment that Draco realised he’d been standing on a rock in the deep water, launched himself into a dive. His body cut through air and water, until it was completely submerged. The sun reflected from the ripples coming from the point where Potter had entered the water, causing spots of light that moved across the surrounding rocks.

Potter came up on the other side of the pool, turned, and saw Draco. He smiled and waved.

Draco, not knowing what else to do, waved back.

Potter wiped his wet hair out of his face. "You should come in!"

It had not escaped Draco’s notice that Potter was standing naked and dripping in the middle of a waterfall-fed rock pool. He looked like a wet dream. This was not how Draco wanted to look at Potter.

"I’m fine," he called back. He found a rock at the water’s edge at the shaded side of the pool. "I’ll just sit here."

"Don’t be silly. It’s hot today, and the water is so refreshing." As though to illustrate this, Potter dove in once more, flashing his buttocks to the sun – and Draco – once more.

"Oh, honestly," Draco muttered. Must Potter be such an exhibitionist? Now that Draco wasn’t scrabbling across rocks and clinging onto branches to avoid another fall, he was beginning to cool in the shade. The water did look inviting, and when Potter popped back and began to swim lazy lengths of the pool, Draco condescended to remove his sandals and lower his feet into the water.

It wasn’t _refreshing_ , it was bloody freezing. He wiggled his toes, but then had to admit that this was the coolest he’d felt in days.

Potter was treading water in the deep part of the pool. "Come in while you’re still hot, it’s the best way to do it. Splash your hands and your face, then ease your way in. It’s the most wonderful thing ever."

A strange sensation tickled Draco’s feet, and he looked down to see a couple of small silvery fish nibbling – or so it looked – at his toes. He half jumped, and they darted away.

"How many fish are in here exactly?"

"Some." Potter shrugged. "It’s where they live."

The fish were now swimming near, but not too close. "Are there any big ones?"

"A few. I go fishing in the river below sometimes. The big ones tend to stay away from all the splashing though. And I don’t think any of them eat people."

Draco suspected that Potter was laughing at him. "These little ones seem to think I taste good."

"Once you get moving they’ll go away."

The fish were coming closer for another nibble. Draco kicked his feet, and they swam away again. "Did you ever swim in the lake at school like this?" Draco asked, thinking that a few tiny fish were very different to a giant squid.

"Only for the Triwizard Tournament. I don’t think that counts. Although," Potter ducked his head under the water and came up in a splash a moment later, "if it had been like this maybe I should have."

It did look inviting, and Draco had climbed down expressly to get into the water. "OK," said Draco. "I’m keeping my underwear on though."

"You make it sounds as though you’re wearing long johns," Potter said with a laugh. "Unbutton yourself! You could do with relaxing a bit."

"I’m fine—"

"You say that, but you’re not in the water yet. Hurry up."

When Draco still didn’t move, Potter swam up close.

"What is it?"

"You’re naked," Draco said. He couldn’t think of how to say it any less baldly than that. "And it’s a little… distracting."

"Oh, right," Potter said. "I didn’t think of that. If it makes you uncomfortable I’ll put something on."

Draco’s cheeks were burning, and he knew it wasn’t from the sun.

Potter managed to pull his underwear back on – Draco definitely didn’t watch – and Draco stripped. He folded his linen shirt neatly, and did the same with his shorts. Above the slightly pond-like smell of the water he could still smell his own, much riper odour. He had to do this. Taking his hat off last, Draco hoped his skin would survive this much exposure. The pool was half-shaded though, so he decided to stay on that side as much as possible.

Small stones dug into his feet, until he learned to step only on the larger, smoother ones.

"Don’t forget to splash your hands and face," Potter called, once more in the water.

"Yes, thank you, Potter, I heard you the first time."

"And don’t worry if you can’t get in very fast, you’re not used to it."

Too bloody right Draco wasn’t used to it. The water felt icy, and he almost yelped when he wet his hands and face.

"You really do this every day?" Draco asked. "Are you mad?"

"It is the best thing ever," Potter said, again. "Trust me."

Gingerly, Draco stepped deeper into the water. He took a step, then waited until the urge to scream had passed, then took another.

Once he got to bollock-height though, he realised he was in trouble.

"You’ll survive this bit, too," Potter said, still sounding amused. He splashed out at Draco, who hissed when the cold water hit his chest.

"Don’t!"

"Keep on going," Potter said, "and I won’t splash you."

"Get wet or get wet? Neither option sounds ideal."

He took another step, onto a large flat rock. As soon as he put his weight on it, two things happened in very quick succession: first of all his bollocks howled at him as they drew up in reaction to the cold, and then the rock wobbled, and Draco slid with no grace at all into the water.

For a moment he couldn’t breathe, and the world was green and cold, so cold. The next he broke through to air, and let out a whoop of surprise. All the over-hot, sticky, dragging lethargy of the day was forgotten in one electric shock of cold. Colours looked brighter, and there, eyes laughing and water dripping from his hair, was Harry Potter.

With another whoop, Draco shoved an arc of water towards Potter, who splashed back. Without his full weight on his leg, Draco felt freer and more mobile than he had done since he’d fallen out of the tree. He swam from one side of the pool to the other, from the large rock where he’d sat to a dark crack in the rocks, to the place where the three waterfalls hit the water.

The water stopped feeling cold; it felt refreshing, like a cool shower on a hot day. It was much better than a cool shower though, and Draco felt a peaceful opening-out deep inside him as all the stress of being hot, lost, and injured, seemed to melt away.

*

The cool stone behind his back felt good in the afternoon heat; Draco was sat in the shade of a giant boulder by the edge of the pool. Coming for a swim had become the highlight of his daily routine. His, and Potter’s.

The days took on a different timbre now that he knew that if – when – he became hot again, he could simply go for a swim and cool off. The chores of fetching and carrying, washing and weeding all seemed merely the build-up to these moments in and by the water. The loosening that had started with that first plunge in had continued; like a piece of string untangled he felt longer, less tight, simpler than before.

Lichen – some white, some a burned-orange – crept along the rocks; some rocks were water smoothed, speaking of water more powerful than the sedate flow powering the waterfalls; jagged edges showed where boulders had fallen and broken in the past. High up, small trees – holm oaks – clung to outcrops, growing in impossible spaces. And above all the sky, a brilliant and impossible blue. All this was reflected in the water below, broken by ripples of brown and green.

The sound of the waterfall vied with the insects, and the sun shone down.

Draco turned his gaze from the fast-moving waterfall, the plume of white it created in the water, to Potter, who was standing next to a holm oak, his eyes closed as he placed a palm flat on his bark.

"What are you doing when you touch the trees?"

Potter dropped his arm and twisted his mouth to one side as he looked at Draco.

"I… it feels… it’s hard to explain. But each tree feels different."

"Each type of tree, or each individual tree?"

"Each individual tree. This one," Potter patted the tree, "is old. I think it prefers autumn to summer."

"You can really tell all that from a touch?"

"Yes, and no. There aren’t words, it’s not like that. It’s more… a feeling."

Draco had tried touching a tree, but nothing had happened. Potter came to sit cross-legged on the rock in front of him, and, as was becoming familiar, presented him with a selection of twigs.

"See what you get from these."

Draco sighed, moved his now green and yellow bruised leg to make it more comfortable, and spread the twigs out on flat rock next to him.

"Holm oak, sweet chestnut, birch, beech, and a bit of… mulberry?" Draco looked up to check, and Potter nodded. He picked up the holm oak, and closed his eyes. He saw, in his mind’s eye, the way the light came through the leaves, the way it looked on the ground. "I get a sense of… dappled light on the forest floor."

"And the next?"

Draco dropped the holm oak twig, and picked up another without looking. This one felt more solid his hands, and he turned it over a few times. "This one feels… stiller somehow." He opened his eyes, and saw that he was holding the beech twig.

Potter was smiling – grinning, really. "I think you’re getting it."

"I am?"

"You are."

Draco wasn’t sure whether he was beginning to feel something when he touched twigs, or whether it was being here, surrounded by so many trees, swimming through the crystal-clear water with silver fishes, that was affecting him. There was a small part of him that wondered whether he was simply trying to impress Potter. He had spent much of his life already trying – and failing – to do so. But that thought unravelled, too, like a knot he no longer needed.

*

"There’s a different job for you today," Potter said. He cut the last of their bread into slices, and added some cheese from the cellar below the cabin. "Seeing as you’re here and can help lighten the load."

"I’ve already collected the water twice this week." Draco was in charge of making their morning coffee. The two stood side by side at the kitchen counter, preparing their breakfast. The day had yet to hit full heat, and it had a gentle feel to it. Both the day, and the company.

"I know you did. I said a different job." Potter sounded as though he was rolling his eyes.

"What is it?"

"Collecting firewood. I need to bake some more bread."

Draco considered this. "That doesn’t sound too bad."

Potter laughed.

"What’s so funny?"

"It takes me an hour to collect enough wood to cook dinner each night."

"When do you have time for all these things?"

"I wake up early, with the birds. When the sun comes up. I’ve already got the usual amount of wood, but we need some more."

"Of course you get up at the crack of dawn. I have no idea where you get your energy from." Potter seemed to him a thing alive. Draco could – did, sometimes, late at night – remember the way Potter had looked, gleaming and naked in the pool. He seemed as much a part of this place as the rocks and the trees, and yet full of movement as the water in the waterfall.

Potter paused mid-bread-saw, and shrugged. "It’s hard not to wake up, when I’m already outside."

Draco was busy trying to balance a coffee pot on the trivet on the fire. Cooking in the cabin was akin to a rather precarious Potions lesson. With the lack of running water, candles for light in the evening, and the tedium of constantly building fires and clearing away ashes, Draco wondered what drove Potter to live so basically. Surely he had a full vault at Gringotts, and could do whatever he wanted; certainly he could afford more than this. But then again, maybe trees didn’t need indoor plumbing, and Potter did seem like a particularly active and odd tree to Draco.

Once the last of the bread was sliced, Potter elbowed Draco to make more space at the fire, and proceeded to toast the bread lightly. "Sorry, it’s a bit stale."

"It’s fine."

He could feel Potter miming, ‘it’s fine’, beside him.

"Don’t be an arse, it is fine."

"Sorry." Potter sounded more amused than contrite. "Old habits die hard."

"Idiot," said Draco, but there was no sting in his words.

Together they brought their coffees, toast, and cheese to the veranda.

A movement caught Draco’s eye, a flash of a hind leg and a tail disappearing into the woods. "Did you see that?" Draco said, alarmed. He always thought of them as being alone in the woods.

"Hmm?" Potter peered over his mug.

"A creature, running that way."

"Colour?"

"Brown."

Potter considered it. "Could be a roe deer. Or a mouflon, I suppose. Maybe a wild boar."

"I don’t even know what one of those is."

"Don’t worry, there’s nothing out there Hagrid would approve of. Although the boars are a bit hairy, in temperament as well as looks. But the trees tend to keep them away."

"Good."

The toast was thin and crisp, and along with the sharp cheese made a pleasing breakfast. Draco though, kept looking out at the forest, less relaxed than normal. "How about we collect the extra wood together?"

"This has nothing to do with creatures being out in the woods?"

"I simply want to save time."

"Of course," Potter said. "I’m sure that’s the only reason."

"Please?" said Draco. "I don’t know whether you remember this, but I’m not very good with animals."

"You weren’t," said Potter. "Doesn’t mean you wouldn’t be now. But yes, we can go together. More time for relaxing later."

That was a factor, too. The longer Draco had to laze around in the cool water with Potter, the better.

"You don’t mind me stopping lots to check in with the trees, right? I always do when I go to collect wood."

It occurred to Draco that he’d thought Potter’s many walks out among the trees were aimless, but maybe Potter had been collecting wood at the same time. It was possible that Potter lived more purposefully than Draco had originally assumed.

*

They’d amassed a fair-sized pile, when Potter wandered off to check in with some trees. Draco kept searching for dead wood; he’d got used to Potter and his need to touch just about every tree they passed by now.

Potter though, called out. "Come here, I want to try something." He had both his arms wrapped around a gnarled holm oak.

Draco added the few sticks he’d found to the pile, then came to join Potter, who stepped back from the tree.

"Put your hand on the trunk."

"I’m not hugging a tree," Draco said. Potter had looked ridiculous.

Potter touched the tree, like an old familiar friend. "It’s not going to hurt you."

"I don't see the point in hugging a tree."

"You believe there’s some mystical truth about trees you need to learn, but you don’t think you can gain from touching a tree?" Potter raised his eyebrows, evoking Professor McGonagall at her most frightening.

"That’s not what I said."

Gingerly, Draco held out his hand. And then he realised he was making a song and dance about touching a sodding tree, and reached out more decisively. Merlin, he had no idea why Potter did this to him, but some part of him couldn’t help but react like an angry teenager.

The tree was cool to the touch, and firm – firmer than flesh or even the flat dead wood of a table or a chair. He had the sense of roots, deep in the earth, and a quiet energy rising up from the ground.

Draco l looked at Potter in surprise. "I can feel it."

A grin broke across Potter’s face. "It’s great, isn’t it? A bit like—"

"A wand, except—"

"Except it’s not personal like a wand it’s more about—"

"Sap and energy and the earth."

They stood grinning at each other like a couple of excitable idiots. Which, Draco supposed, they were.

"Not everyone gets it," Potter said. "I’m glad you do."

Draco felt himself preen at the idea that he was one of the special people who did, as though he were fifteen not nearly thirty. A smidgeon of shame fluttered across his awareness that he was, again, acting like a teenager around Potter, but one glance at Potter’s big stupid open face, full of enthusiasm, and he decided it didn’t matter. Bloody Gryffindors, this was how they got you in the end: their boundless energy and earnestness.

And Draco realised that the tree-ness, and waterfall-energy of Potter were variations of Gryffindor behaviours. Maybe Potter was who he had always been.

*

Draco had eased so into the warmth, into the pattern of water fetching, wood collecting, vegetable tending, and the refreshing joy of swimming through clear water, and the new, surprising moments when he touched a tree and _felt_ it, that he had almost forgotten that he was waiting for Granger’s owl to arrive. Almost, but not completely, as he often still felt like an intruder in Potter’s life. He was a houseguest who had never really been wanted. Draco’s leg still ached, but the bruising was slowly fading and the swelling had gone down.

In a way, staying with Potter had given Draco somewhere to avoid thinking about what he was going to do with his life, and now that he had felt the energy of a tree – still, old, rooted in the earth – he was beginning to hope that there was a chance for him, after all.

Coming back from the pool with Potter, chatting about the frog who had watched them the whole time they were swimming, and discussing whether they would try jumping from the top of the waterfall, Draco wasn’t expecting to see a neat barn owl sitting on the edge of Potter’s veranda. Judging by Potter’s abrupt silence, nor had he.

"Hermione," Potter said tersely, and all of a sudden Draco felt bereft. It was as though a veil had been drawn away, revealing the truth of his stay: it had always been temporary. His feet heavy, Draco followed Potter into the cabin.

The owl came inside with them, and perched on the back of one of the chairs while Potter found it a treat. Draco went to hang the towels outside while Potter unrolled the scroll the owl had been carrying. The insects chirped in the still afternoon air, but the scene had taken on a surreal aspect. Granger, Draco remembered, had known where Potter was for years now. She wrote every week. And Draco had spent those years wondering where Potter had got to, how he was.

He could admit that now, admit that he had thought about Potter over the years. If Potter had stayed, could they have been friends? Based on the past week or so, Draco thought that it could, after all, have been a possibility. But now that he was reminded of the reality of who Potter was – of his friends and the years of silence while he hid here, in the woods – Draco saw that this was a delicate thing, this possible-friendship between the two of them. As it ever had been.

Potter came out, attached another scroll to the owl’s leg, and together they watched it fly off.

"I told her you were here, explained what happened."

"Did you—"

"I asked her to let your mother know you were OK."

"Thank you."

"I never know what to write to her."

"She’s your friend."

"And everything is so easy for her. She’s got it all mapped out, and I don’t think she understands anything about what I’m doing here. I… I think she pities me."

"Oh yes," said Draco, "I could see how she could pity you this." Above them the blue sky shone with the intensity of a jewel, and around them leaves muttered and whispered amongst the loud insects. "It’s terrible here."

Potter gave him a gentle smile. "I never thought that the person who understood my life here could be you."

"Maybe if they visited—"

"Oh, they have. Ron doesn’t like the insects. Hermione doesn’t like that I don’t have the space to put them up. They bring a tent." Potter’s smile changed to something sadder, an old pain in his eyes.

"I can’t imagine the head of the DMLE camping!"

Potter didn’t reply, but turned instead to look into the forest. "I don’t know what she’ll do about you being here, or how long it will take."

An ache settled in Draco’s chest as he and Potter stood side by side, looking out at the trees. The hills surrounded them, a gentle undulating green that held the valley. From inside the woods, the green was not as uniform as it appeared at first glance. Beech and birch mingled with chestnut, and the Draco knew that the lower he travelled, the more prevalent the holm oak became. He had come to love the holm oaks, the way their small dark leaves, slightly silvered on one side, seemed to catch the light in an almost-shimmer that moved with the breeze.

Above everything rose a fierce blue sky, and an even fiercer sun. In the morning it rose in a pink sky above a black forest, and in the evening it set in blaze of golds and purples in the west.

It wasn’t only the holm oaks, he realised: he loved being here, too. A peace that was part sun-drenched warmth, part trees, and part slowing his life right down, seemed to have permeated every part of his body. Sadness welled, at the thought of leaving.

"I…" He turned, to tell Potter that he didn’t want to leave, that he wished it continue like this forever, with no autumn, or winter, or spring, that it could instead be an endless summer. Potter though, was already looking at him, his eyes full of sun and shadow. The words died on Draco’s lips, and he was conscious that they were standing close to each other. Too close. He stared back, and then wrenched his eyes away. "I’ll be out of your hair soon."

Potter reached out a hand, and covered Draco’s with his own. "It’s been nice to have the company," he said. "I’m so used to being by myself, I wasn’t expecting to… enjoy having someone else around. Plus to be honest I thought you’d be an utter prick, but it turns out you aren’t as bad as I thought."

A bloom of annoyance sprang up, at how close Potter was standing and how he was practically holding his hand, and then he had the gall to _insult_ Draco, and—

Potter’s hand disappeared as he began to laugh. "Oh look at you! You look as though I’ve mortally wounded you!"

"You called me a prick," Draco said, outraged. And then he, too, started to laugh. "What a pillock."

"Idiot."

"Potty Potter."

Potter’s smile became a sigh. "It’ll probably be a few days at least before we hear back, she’s always so busy."

"A few days more will be nice," Draco said.

"And then we’ll be out of each other’s hair." Potter’s eyes returned to the trees. "I can be alone again."

Potter cared more about the trees than anything else. Yet… a few more days of sunshine, swimming, peace and quiet. Draco would take it.

*

"I think the radishes can come up," Potter said, pointing to one of the leafy rows in the vegetable garden. He was standing at the edge of the clearing, and had been peering up into the branches of a sweet chestnut tree.

Since Granger’s letter had arrived, they’d both behaved as though it hadn’t. It had been a week now, with no reply. Neither had mentioned it.

"Is that what they are?" Draco said, looking at the row of leaves. Although he was learning, one row of leaves still looked pretty similar to the next one. "These ones?"

"You can start, I’ll be there in a second."

They came up easily enough, pink and white beneath the leaves.

"These should make a nice salad tonight."

"We can eat the leaves, too. It would be nice with a bit of fruit, too."

Potter, Draco had learned, was an excellent cook. It helped that he had so much fresh food available to him. He also had a good supply of cured meat and local specialities in his well-stocked cupboards, and more down in his cellar. He and Guillaume appeared to have established a bartering system where Potter provided magical wood, and Guillaume kept Harry in food. There was more to it though, and Draco wondered where he’d developed his knowledge of sauces and recipes, as there were no recipe books in his house. He’d come to live there almost straight out of Hogwarts. Where had he learned to cook? Draco knew the year before the final battle at Hogwarts Potter and his friends had been doing Very Important Things; he doubted that cooking had been high on their list of priorities.

Yet another mystery about Potter. It was strange, the more Draco got to know Potter, the more the things that he wondered about were nothing to do with the questions the press or public wanted to know. No one, he realised, really seemed to know Potter at all. And that appeared to include his friends, too. At least Draco’s ragtag bunch of friends knew who he was. Or at least, as much as he was willing to show them.

They fell into a rhythm, Draco and Potter, collecting radishes, picking tomatoes, checking for ripe cucumbers.

"I wish I had all the gardening tools," Draco said, thinking wistfully of the basket next to the sink in the cabin. "I can’t believe how fast the weeds come up."

Potter paused what he was doing, and sat back. Draco took the opportunity to take his hat off for a moment, and wipe the sweat from his brow.

"Put that back on, can’t have you going all pink again."

Draco rolled his eyes but obeyed. Potter was still watching him, his eyes intent like they had been after Granger’s owl had arrived.

"I… I want to show you something." Potter leant forward and touched Draco’s knee briefly, a short squeeze before he stood again. Draco stared at his knee, and felt surprise that there wasn’t a glowing red spot where Potter had touched him, because that was how it had felt: a red-hot glow of warmth.

Potter was back by the chestnut tree. An old tree, it had low-running boughs, and Potter rested his hand on one of these.

"I…" Draco touched the place on his knee where Potter’s hand had been. He could still feel Potter’s touch.

"Watch. I… I’ve never shown this to anyone before."

That got Draco’s attention.

Potter touched a small twig growing out of a small branch, and whispered something so quietly Draco couldn’t make out the individual words. Draco leant forward, and held his breath. Potter stood, very still, his hand barely touching the tree. After a moment he spoke again, and this time Draco heard the words: "Please, if you may, do you have anything you can offer me?" And then Draco saw, with his very own eyes, the tree and the twig give a little shiver before the twig shook itself off the tree. In Potter’s hand, it sat, detached, as though Potter had plucked it from the tree.

"Did the tree just _give_ you a part of itself?" Draco asked, utterly shocked.

"Yes," Potter said simply.

"What did you say, at the beginning?"

"Oh. Well…" Potter came to sit near Draco again. Before he continued he leant over and adjusted Draco’s hat. "You had a bit of sun on your chin."

"What did you say? What did you _do_?"

"These trees are different," Potter said. "All of them in this part of the woods are." He wiggled his fingers. "Magic."

"Does that mean… I couldn’t _feel_ a tree in London the same way I did the one here?"

"No, actually, it doesn’t. Now you’ve heard that song, really heard it, you won’t forget it. But giving up a part of themselves? Only the trees here have enough…" Potter paused, as though searching for the right word.

"Sentience?" Draco offered.

"Something like that. Awareness. Choice."

"No wonder you have to be careful lighting fires around them."

"Didn’t you wonder why I only use naturally fallen wood for my fires? It takes me ages to collect enough firewood to see me through the winter."

"What about heating charms?"

"I, er, I don’t use much magic here to be honest."

The trees, Draco presumed, didn’t approve. "So the sort-of-sentient trees decide to give you part of themselves?" Draco shivered. "That’s actually a bit creepy."

"Bits come off all the time. They like giving them up to birds for their nests, too."

"But, why give anything away at all?"

"That’s what the part at the beginning was about." Potter paused, and gave Draco a sideways look. "You have to offer them something. Something honest, something true."

"So what did you offer?"

"Usually," Potter said. "I offer them something… this is going to sound corny."

"We’re talking about trees giving away parts of themselves. I don’t think ‘corny’ really matters."

Potter gave him a long, steady look, as though weighing up how much he could say – how much he could open up to Draco. He took a breath, having it seemed made up his mind. "Well, I offer them the openness of my heart. The truth of me, inside."

Draco was silent. No wonder Potter cared about the trees so much. They were the only ones who knew him. The loneliness of this struck Draco like a blow, in part because it reminded him of himself in some strange way.

"See, you do think it’s corny."

"No, it’s not that. I… it’s a lot to take in. And," he looked at Potter, moving his hat up to see him better, "you decided to show me."

Potter ducked his head slightly as a warm smile widened across his face. He reached out once more, and straightened Draco’s hat again. "Somehow it felt right. Plus you needed something to help you with the weeding." He offered the stick to Draco.

It felt light but solid in his hand. "You want me to weed with this?"

"Yes."

"But… that doesn’t seem right." He looked at the elegance of this part-of-tree. "This… it’s amazing. It shouldn’t be used for rooting around in the earth."

"I think it’s more meaningful to use it for a purpose rather than look at it."

"But…"

"How do you think I got all the wood to build my house?"

At this Draco’s mind boggled. Potter had asked trees for all that wood? How long had that taken? Plus, some of the pieces were huge.

"Oh, don’t look like that. You get this look, like you’ve eaten something very odd indeed, when you’re worrying over an idea."

"I do not."

Potter laughed. "You do."

Draco looked again at the stick in his hand, and thought of the beams and planks of Harry’s cabin. "I can’t believe trees gave up that much of themselves."

"You’re right, they didn’t. A couple of trees came down in a storm, I used those, too."

"I knew it!" That made much more sense than huge branches popping off from trees for Potter’s benefit.

"And you love being right, don’t you?"

Draco thought about it. "Yes, I do!"

They both laughed, and Draco took one last look at the stick and began to poke at the soil with it.

A question occurred to Draco as he dug with his miraculous little stick. "What do the birds offer?"

Potter looked up from where he was picking beans. "Isn’t it obvious?"

"Would I be asking if I already knew the answer?"

Potter smiled. "Their song. They offer their songs."

Around them the birds sang, and Draco sat back in wonder all over again.

*

That afternoon, fluffy white clouds appeared in the sky. In the evening the heat had become heavy and oppressive. By the next morning, a brisk breeze and overcast sky brought Potter in earlier than normal.

"We better get the wood and water straight away."

"What time is it?" Draco was still in bed, Potter having shaken him awake to a grey room and a frowning face.

Potter looked at his watch. "Quarter to six."

Draco groaned and pulled the cover over his head. "It’s too early."

"I wouldn’t have woken you if it wasn’t important. Rain’s coming. We need dry wood, and water enough for today."

"Fine."

"Fine," said Potter. "It’s always ‘fine’ with you, isn’t it?"

"Oh, leave me alone. Give me a few minutes to get dressed at least."

"I’ll get the water now then, you start on the wood as soon as you can, sleeping beauty."

The cheeky sod.

The ceilings seemed lower without bright sunlight filling the room. Outside felt strangely similar: the trees seemed lower under the dark grey sky. By the time Draco returned with the wood, Potter had already filled the small tank above the sink.

"Now you’re here we can have some coffee," Potter said. "And I’ve got us a treat for breakfast." He placed a plate of figs, a bowl of nuts, and a jar of honey on the table.

Draco was glad, for once, to be inside while the fire was lit; there was a definite chill to the air.

"Does it often get like this?"

"Every now and then."

It seemed that they settled down to wait, after this. A dark band of clouds out to the east grew steadily closer, brushing the tops of the hills. Draco, standing by the window, saw a bright flash of lightning cut across the sky a few seconds before booming thunder rang across the valley. He stood there, watching the lightning and rain roll in.

"Reminds me of Hogwarts," Potter said, joining him. "I missed it after we left."

"You missed the school?" Draco asked, curious. He wasn’t sure how he’d define his own experience of school. He had been a raging prick for large portions of it, filled with anger, and fear. It was strange, while he stood next to Potter with such ease, to reflect on how much of that tangle of feeling had been focused on him.

"I missed seeing all that weather around us, having all that space. And yes, I missed Hogwarts… I missed feeling at home at school. But then so much happened…" Potter ran a hand through his hair. It was long enough, Draco noticed, that it curled slightly at the thick ends, and touched his neck. It almost touched his shoulders. "I used to hate you so much."

"Funny, I was thinking the same."

Draco smiled ruefully at Potter, but Potter wasn’t smiling. His eyes were sad. "You were so arrogant."

"So were you."

"I’m… I’m sorry I cut you with that spell."

"I’m sorry I stamped on you. I know I broke something." Draco had stopped smiling, too. "And I’m sorry for a heap more besides." He sighed. "Merlin, we were a pair of arrogant pillocks, weren’t we? Although I think I probably win on that front. And for being an idiot, too."

"We were just children. Both asked to do too much."

"Both expendable."

"Yes."

This was more than they had ever talked about before, and it brought a prickle of shame and sadness that spread over Draco’s skin. He shifted his shoulders, trying to release the feeling, but it stayed.

"Sorry, that all got a bit serious. Maybe it’s the weather." Potter said. A bolt of lightning struck the top of the nearest hill, and the thunder followed almost immediately after. "It’s getting closer."

"I never talk about it," Draco said. "Any of it. No one wants to talk about it. No one wants to know what it was like, living with… _him_ , and no one wants to hear about the stupid, awful choices I made, or how terrified I was all of the time."

"You told me about some of it."

Draco looked at Potter. "You were the only one."

Potter looked back at him, blinked once, then looked away. "I talked to Ron and Hermione a bit. They were there for most of what happened to me."

And there it was, the old chasm between them: Draco alone, and Potter with his friends. And what was Draco, to Potter, in that equation?

A wall of sound came towards the cabin: rain hitting the leaves of the trees outside. And then it was upon the cabin, a constant hammering on the wooden roof.

The horrible prickling feeling was still there, and it stayed after Potter went to wash up. Maybe, Draco reflected, it was something he always carried with him, but didn’t always notice.

*

The next day the world looked greener, but the heat returned and the ground dried. The echoes of mud and water flowing were visible on the path, and in the increased water level in the pool. Similarly, everything felt the same and yet… fuller, between Draco and Potter.

When they returned to the cabin after their swim, it was to find the neat barn owl sitting outside again.

Potter brought the owl inside, and found it a treat, as before.

He unrolled the parchment, and read the letter through, then looked up at Draco.

"She says she’s coming, on Sunday—"

"What day is it now?" Draco had lost count.

"Friday. She’s bringing a Portkey, for you. Ron’s coming too." Potter swallowed, and a mix of feelings played out on his face. "They’re bringing the tent."

"Oh."

"She says hello from your mum."

"That’s nice." Draco wasn’t thinking about his mother. In fact, he’d barely spared a thought for his parents since he arrived. A sinking hole had opened inside him, at the thought that he only had two more days left here. Two more days with Potter.

"Let’s go for a walk," Potter said. "I’ll write her a quick answer and then I’ll show you my favourite tree."

"You have a favourite?" Draco asked, still aware of the gnawing ache at his insides. "Aren’t you worried about hurting the feelings of the other trees?"

"It’s not like that," Potter said, as he reached for ink pot and quill. "And you know it isn’t! You feel the trees, too."

The feeling inside had become a jittery sensation now, and Draco wondered if Potter felt this, too. Going for a walk seemed a good idea, because perhaps walking would help shake off this feeling.

"I think I’ll wait outside," Draco said, feeling trapped all of a sudden.

Potter nodded, and Draco escaped.

*

A few of the beech leaves were turning yellow, Draco noticed; summer would be coming to an end soon. However much he wanted it to be an endless summer of sunshine and swimming, it could never have lasted forever.

They walked under the trees in silence. Draco was struggling to know what to say, so it was easier to say nothing at all.

When they came to a small clearing, Potter slowed, then stopped.

"How’s your leg?"

"My leg? A dull ache after a long day, but most of the time it’s fine now."

Potter smiled at the word ‘fine’. "I was worried I’d messed it up somehow."

"I’ll get a Healer to look at it when I get back," Draco said, thinking he’d have to fight Millicent off, and then he fell silent again because he didn’t want to think about getting back. It felt wrong somehow, to talk about it here under the trees, and he wished he hadn’t said it.

"Can we sit for a while? This is one of my favourite spots."

Draco nodded.

All around them beech trees spread their branches wide, and the canopy was aquiver with their leaves. Light moved in patches on the forest floor, carpeted with old leaves, and in the shade of the trees the day was comfortingly warm rather than overly hot.

They sat in silence, watching the trees. Draco was aware of Potter beside him, of his tatty t-shirt over brown skin, of the hair that curled at his neck, of the broad hands that knew how to speak to trees.

"I don’t have a wand," Potter said, very quietly after a while. "I don’t know if you’ve noticed."

Draco turned to him. Potter being so quiet, and so still, made this seem important. He nodded. "Wandless magic. Are you… are you really that powerful? Is what they say about you true?"

"No," said Potter, sounding pained. "It’s not that at all. I barely use magic now, only for important things like containing my fires," He glanced at Draco’s leg, "Or setting broken bones." He paused, and took a deep breath. "Do you remember when we used to talk, in eighth year?"

"Yes," said Draco. "For a time, you were the only person who did speak to me."

"I’m sorry." Potter’s voice even more small and tight. "I want to be able to say I didn’t realise how alone you were, but… I did know. And I still ran away."

Draco thought about it. "It must have been bad, whatever it was, for you to run away."

"It was," Potter said. His hands were moving, wrapping over themselves in his lap. "I started to use magic to hide what I was feeling."

"A spell to dampen feelings down?" Draco hadn’t heard of such a thing before. A part of him yearned for it though, was immediately drawn to the idea that he could simply wave his wand and make all the difficult feelings recede.

"No," Potter whispered. "Worse. I _used_ magic. Powerful magic that I could feel coursing through my body. It… for a while I didn’t feel like me."

This Draco had heard of, but he would never have imagined… never Potter. Some witches and wizards became almost addicted to powerful magic. Ultimately, it could destroy them as they sought out darker and darker magic.

"What happened?"

"Ron and Hermione worked it out. I thought they were too wrapped up in each other to notice, but I was wrong."

"So you came here."

"I needed to get away. I left my wand behind."

" _That’s_ why they were so worried when you left!" It made sense now, of the way it had been splashed so much across the headlines. It had felt like too much, even for the Chosen One. If the Ministry had known Potter had left his wand behind, they would have assumed the worst.

"And then something happened when I got here. The trees… they saved me."

Draco stayed silent. It didn’t seem the time for comments or questions.

"I didn’t know where I was going, or what I was doing. Like you, I arrived in Marseille first – I took a random Portkey from the collection I’d put in my bag – and then I simply walked. I followed a stream, I ate the bread I had carried with me. I bought more food from the villages I passed. And then one day, when I’d barely slept and my whole body felt as though it was vibrating with pent-up magic and grief, I stood beside a tree and put my hand to the trunk."

"And you felt that… that…"

"That peace. That strength. It was as though a switch had been flicked, deep inside me. When I touched the tree the shaking in my body stopped, and I felt only stillness and the slow flow of sap through wood."

If Draco hadn’t felt it for himself, he never would have believed Potter.

"And then when I let go," Potter continued, "all the terrible feelings came back. I slept that night wrapped half around the tree, just to get to some peace."

"And you decided to stay."

Potter pointed at a large beech tree, the nearest to where they sat. "It was that tree."

Draco stared at the tree that had saved Potter. It rose, tall, calm, majestic. Oblivious. "It happened here?"

"I still like to sleep wrapped around it."

Suddenly everything shifted, and the world looked different to Draco. It was as though blue had become green, or the sky changed place with the Earth. He’d thought Potter eccentric, maybe a bit potty, but instead now he saw that Potter still lived with all that pain and grief, exactly as he had done when he’d run away ten years before.

"I learned that I didn’t need a wand to do magic, not in the woods. I use the trees; I channel magic through them, and somehow it… softens the magic. Gentles it, and me," he added.

"And then I turn up and all I talk about are wands."

"It’s been… it’s been OK. Maybe if you’d been a master wandmaker it would have been different."

"But instead I was a failure and couldn’t feel the trees at all."

"But you can now."

Draco was aware, all of a sudden, of how close they were sitting. The air between them seemed clearer than normal, a crystal clear silence. The beech leaves above them moved, and sunlight rippled in patches around them, and yet everything seemed still. Without thinking, he reached out and touched the skin on Potter’s cheek, touched the stubble there and ran his finger down the side of Potter’s jaw. A vein pulsed beneath the skin on Potter’s neck.

Potter’s lips parted with a shaky inhalation.

"I…"

"I get it," Draco said, his own voice shaky. "I get the pain of it all. The way it never really leaves you. The way it’s easier to shut everything else out than feel it."

"And then sometimes," Potter said, "Sometimes something happens and it feels," he licked his lips, "wonderful."

Potter wasn’t talking about trees, Draco knew that. He moved his face closer to Potter’s face, saw the way his eyes widened. He felt the ground beneath his body, the layers of leaf and dirt, the tangle of roots and worms. Rooted in the earth, rising from it like a tree, he leaned forward and touched Potter’s mouth with his lips. The response he got was immediate: warm and hungry, Potter’s mouth fitted to his own. A groan rose from deep within Draco, and he grabbed Potter’s t-shirt to pull him closer.

He wanted to devour Potter. Consume him. Touch him like a tree, and feel his energy from the inside.

As they kissed, all the jittery feelings became keener, and grew an edge. Draco pulled back when he felt as though his skin might break apart.

"Is this…" His breath was coming in shuddering shakes, and he didn’t know how to feel. Part of his heart was still full of sadness, another wanted to climb into Potter.

This time Potter took hold of Draco, pulled him close again. "It’s OK," he whispered. "Fine, even."

Draco gave a little shaky laugh. Potter’s breath was against his skin, warm and close. Potter kissed his neck, softly, gently, and a different sensation bloomed across his skin: one of warmth.

"Breathe," Potter said, and he sat back. His hand found Draco’s, and he squeezed it. "Let yourself breathe."

Draco took a deep breath, and then another. "Sorry," he said. "It’s all a lot, all of a sudden."

Potter stroked Draco’s hand. "I think you’re amazing."

"I think you have no right looking as good as you do in that t-shirt," Draco said. Potter smiled, and ducked his head sheepishly. Draco turned his hand to link his fingers with Potter’s. "You’ve been so alone," Draco whispered.

"I have," Potter said simply. "But I’m not alone right now, am I?"

"What are we doing?"

"Do we have to think it through? What do you _feel_ , Draco?"

Draco looked up at the sound of his name. "You called me Draco."

"I want to kiss you again, very much so. If I can have my tongue in your mouth, I think maybe I can use your actual name."

Draco’s brain stuttered a little at the words ‘tongue’ and ‘mouth’. He looked again at Harry’s lips, which were shiny and full from the kiss they’d already shared. "Harry," he said.

Harry leant forward and pulled the hand that was joined with Draco’s, and put their hands on Draco’s chest, as though they were touching one of the trees. "Listen to yourself," he said.

After another deep breath, and feeling his chest rise and fall beneath their hands, Draco closed his eyes. He could feel the beating of his heart beneath his hand, he could feel the way he quivered. He breathed more. There it was, the ground beneath him, the rising energy that wanted to meet Harry, wanted to become entangled with his energy. He opened his eyes.

"I want to kiss you again," he said. "I want to touch you."

This time their kiss was slower, more tender. Draco’s hand ended up on Harry’s back, the hard muscles of it under his fingers, and Harry’s on his thigh.

The feeling of kissing – slow, languid – became another space Draco inhabited. He was in his body, he was sitting under the trees, but he was also in what felt like endless kiss that was a give and a take, an exploration. A meeting.

Harry’s hand moved up Draco’s leg, and a new sensation started up for Draco. Heat coursed through him, through arms and legs, into his kiss. He pulled Harry closer, and Harry groaned.

And then Harry pulled him down to the ground, and Draco wasn’t thinking at all about anything at all.

The thick, rich loamy scent of the earth and leaves mixed with the smell of Harry’s skin on his neck. It mingled with the taste of Harry’s skin, the shape of tendons under Draco’s mouth. Harry’s t-shirt and Draco’s shirt became impediments to peel back. With pulling and tugging and muffled groans they were both quickly removed, and the kissing continued, this time with hands roaming more widely. Draco’s hand travelled across the firm flesh of Harry’s back, held onto the solidness of his side.

"Oh, fuck," Draco said, as Harry cupped his arse and kneaded. How could he get closer to Harry?

"Hmm," Harry hummed. "Wanna touch my wood?"

Draco froze as the words made it through to whatever part of his brain was still thinking. Touch his wood? Potter – Harry – it was hard to keep it straight – was ridiculous, and staring up at him with great big horny faux-innocent eyes. Laughter bubbled up through Draco and burst out of him so loudly he heard a bird take off from a nearby tree. Harry waggled his eyebrows, and looked down at his tented crotch.

"You… are you taking this seriously?" Draco’s attention though, was rather taken by the straining outline of a visibly hard cock in Harry’s shorts.

"I don’t need to take it seriously, I need to enjoy it. And right now I want you to touch my wood. I would," Harry swallowed, sounding serious for all he said he wasn’t, "very much like you to."

Every part of Draco now felt steaming hot. "I think," said Draco, "I would very much like to, too."

He reached out, and traced the line it made. Harry shivered, closed his eyes, and hummed again. Encouraged, Draco continued. He felt the outline of Harry’s cock, felt the way it sprang back up towards him when he pushed down on it. He switched to using the flat of his hand, and then his cupped palm, to apply a more rhythmic stroke.

"If you carry on doing that it will all be over before it’s begun," said Harry.

"Oh yeah," said Draco, feeling a spark of the old sense of competition he’d always shared with Harry. "What if I made you, Potter?"

"You fucker," Harry growled. And then he rolled so that he was on top of Draco, astride Draco, his face bent low and his hands on Draco’s wrists. The hard forest floor pressed into Draco’s back, while Potter’s thighs and body weighed down on him from above.

"I…" Draco dragged in a breath. "Oh, Merlin." He thrust up towards Potter’s body, aware of how fiercely hard his own erection had become. Their next kiss was harder, hungry again.

"You like that," said Harry, in a low voice. He lowered himself further, rubbed himself on Draco.

"No shorts," Draco managed to say. "Naked."

Rather than the frenzied undressing of before, this was slower, more deliberate. Harry kept one hand on the ground, supporting himself with those water-carrying muscles. He maintained an intense eye contact with Draco as he pulled his own shorts off, then unbuttoned the top button of Draco’s.

"Do you want me to?" he whispered.

"Yes."

"Always so buttoned up," Harry said as he eased the rest undone and began to pull Draco’s shorts and underwear down together.

Together they kicked the shorts off and away. Draco was aware of leaves all around them, of a cool dampness that came from the earth itself but that could not quench the heat he felt. And then came the ball-aching relief of cock touching cock, of heat meeting heat. Potter brought his hands to Draco’s, and held him down as he kissed him deeply. A groaning growl came of out Draco, as he rutted up against Potter.

When Harry released him, Draco was panting.

"Harry, I really really want you to fuck me."

He felt Harry shake when he said the words, actually shake. For some reason this had an electrifying effect on Draco. His desire to be fucked focused down to a pin prick of intensity that made his insides ache with want. He’d been with his fair share of men over the years, but nothing had prepared him for the experience of making Harry Potter shake.

He paused though, wondering about the shake. Harry had been alone in this wood for a long time… how alone had he been? Maybe this was new to him.

"Would that be OK?" Draco asked. "Because I’d really love it, but—"

"Stop thinking! I can see you, thinking." Harry’s eyes were dark. Predatory. "Yes, it would be OK. It would be great. It’s all… I’m… It’s been a while."

"I’ll be gentle with you," Draco said.

"I might not want to be that gentle with you," Harry immediately rumbled, and the beam of desire in Draco grew even more intense. "I want you so badly I can barely see you right now. Can you… I don’t have any lube."

Draco fumbled for his discarded clothing, and found his wand. "I know a spell," he said. "It’ll do." He wondered, for a split second, what it would be like to have Harry perform it, channelling his magic through the trees. Tree-made lube; maybe it would be like sap.

"Draco. Lube," Harry said.

"Right." Draco pointed the wand, rather indelicately, at himself, and muttered the words. A loose, liquid sensation spread through his arse. "Done." He dropped his wand. "I’m ready for your wood."

Harry groaned.

"You started it."

He thought they’d stay as they were, but after Harry had delivered another of his devastating deep kisses, he pushed Draco on the side. Draco got the message, and turned over, while Harry pulled on his hips to bring him up onto his knees. Draco’s leg protested a little as he moved, but once his weight was more on his knees it seemed fine. Draco looked up to see the solid trunk of Harry’s favourite tree in front of him; he hadn’t realised how close they were.

"Like this," Harry whispered close to his ear, his breath brushing Draco’s skin, and tickling his ear with its heat. "I want to fuck you so hard you stop getting distracted by thinking."

Draco shivered, because fuck yes that’s what his body craved. He leant forward, and steadied his hands on the wide smooth trunk of the tree, and waited with body braced against earth and tree.

 _Yes_ , said Draco, silently in his mind as large hands grabbed at his arse, and the tip of Harry’s cock made contact. _Yes_ , he whispered to himself, as slowly, slowly Harry’s cock eased in, pushing, breaching, widening as it went. _Yes_ , his soul said, as Harry filled him, and paused. _More_.

Holding onto his hips, Harry set up a slow, steady rhythm. He didn’t let up. And Draco felt himself let go, button by metaphorical button. Each thrust brought him to something deeper within himself, and somehow the rough earth beneath his knees, the bark under his hands, the scent of the forest were all part of it.

It was like being a tree, being fucked by a tree. Draco felt the flow of the earth through his hands, through Harry’s cock, through the rhythm of Harry thrusting into him. Was it like fucking a tree for Harry?

He was losing his mind and it was so, so, worth it.

Something changed – Harry changed angle, or maybe his cock was doubling in size because it felt so huge and wonderful, dragging and rubbing Draco on the inside, over and over and then, then, he was doing it in the right place and Draco couldn’t see the tree anymore. He was a blaze of light and he would explode with it, and then Harry thrusted and then—

Draco came with a cry that filled him. Harry, who really did feel huge, came too, a pulsing burst in Draco’s arse that surprised Draco with the intensity of the sensation, the way he felt it so clearly.

Sweat. Draco was covered in sweat. A breeze touched every sweaty part of his body as Harry pulled out, and the two of them collapsed in a spunky pile under the come-streaked tree. The air was rich with the smell of sex, the scent of their sex together. He took great lungfuls as he tried to get his breath back.

Draco had never had sex where he’d felt so much _in_ his body. He looked over at Harry, who was lying back, his eyes half-closed but probably still looking at the trees. Had it been like that for Harry, too, or had it been an escape from their conversation beforehand? Maybe Harry had been outside of his body, outside of himself.

Did it matter? _Yes_ , a little voice whispered. It did matter. But Draco had no control over it. If he had a choice, he’d like to believe that Harry had been there with him, had been in it with him, too.

"Stop thinking," Harry muttered. "Or I’ll have to fuck it out of you again."

Draco was too tired to respond. He let his head fall back, then lay there in his cooling sweat and spunk, listening to the breeze in the trees, the birds talking to the trees, and the insects talking to themselves.

*

They dressed after a half-doze, awkwardly quiet together, and walked back to the cabin. Once they got to the door though, Harry pulled Draco into a kiss. The doorframe dug into Draco’s back, but he was grateful it was there as his knees turned to liquid.

Harry prepared a meal of reheated ratatouille and some pasta, with a fresh salad of produce from the garden. They talked about how the tomatoes were doing, about where the big frog had gone (down to a lower pool, Harry reassured Draco), and Harry talked more about what he knew of beech trees. Beech was what the cabin was built from, and it was all about time, wisdom, growth. Draco added what he knew, that beech wands suited to those with understanding of the world, and that beech wands were capable of subtlety and artistry.

Eventually though, they ran out of things to say, because there was one thing that they weren’t talking about at all.

"What happened," Draco said in the end, when he couldn’t bare the silence anymore, "down by the tree, was that…"

Harry was entirely still, entirely focused on what Draco was saying.

"Was it only… emotions and trees, and spending so much time together?"

"I don’t know what it was," Harry said, slowly. "I only know that I want to do it again."

The breath caught in Draco’s throat. Harry’s eyelashes were so dark, Draco noticed. How hadn’t he noticed how disgustingly suggestive they were before?

"Really?"

"Really." Harry’s voice was dark with desire.

Draco wasn’t used to being wanted in this way. He’d had encounters in clubs, flings, even what some might call relationships, but with Harry it felt as though all of him was wanted: not just his body, but something more. Who he was.

There was no denying how his body was feeling, the surge of hot desire, the urge to be close to Harry.

"I…" Draco didn’t know what he wanted. He looked at Harry, and saw that here was someone who was sitting there looking at him, really looking at him. Seeing him.

"It’s getting late," Harry said. "Come back with me, let me show you what the forest is like at night."

And Draco understood that Harry was offering to show him more than the forest or the trees: he was offering to show him something important about how he lived. A part of his life that maybe he hadn’t shared with anyone else before.

The unsaid words between them faded away. They didn’t matter as they walked, hand in hand, back into the woods, and back to Harry’s tree.

*

That night, Draco slept with Harry under the stars. First though, they took off all their clothes, and Draco rode Harry, slowly and deliberately.

Harry, laid out below Draco like this, was a sight Draco would never forget. Had it been like that for Harry, holding onto Draco and fucking him hard into this tree? Did Harry have a memory of the way his cock looked, sliding in and out of Draco? And how could it compare to the way Harry’s skin was flushed, the way his brow was shiny with sweat, the hair near his scalp darkened with it? Nothing could be better than seeing Harry’s face loose like this, his eyes wide and dark, his mouth shaped around moans and his hands clawing at the leaves.

Draco’s hips felt like molten gold when Harry pressed his hands into them, while the throb of his healing leg grew more intense; the pleasure and the pain melded in a knife-edge of sensation. The strain of rising and lowering himself was worth it when Harry began to beg Draco to up his pace.

When Draco did, he felt a strange sensation on his own cock, like a solid squeezing caress. His cock leapt into it, but when he looked down, Harry wasn’t touching him.

It took his sex-addled mind a few moments to catch up with what was happening.

"Are you touching my cock with your tree-magic?"

"Yes, I am. This," said Harry, his head still thrashing from side to side with each slow movement from Draco, "is how I get myself off."

"You wank with help from the trees?"

"Oh, you don’t know the half of it," said Harry, and at the thought of Harry fucking himself on the trees, Draco bent low to kiss him. The new angle brought Harry’s cock almost out and then all the way back in again with each thrust, and Draco could feel Harry’s hips moving up to meet him each time. Harry’s hands came to his hips and dug in, almost painfully. They moved like this, Draco able to feel the almost-pop of Harry’s cock as it slid in and out, while his own cock felt as though it was being squeezed by pulses of ancient tree magic. Which it probably was.

"Merlin’s fucking balls, Harry,"

As soon as he said, it the strange pulsing sensation moved to his own balls. A light touch, it nonetheless brought him to the edge.

Draco squeezed his arse muscles as tight as he could, and was rewarded by a gasp and then Harry’s face pulling into an open-mouthed shout as he came, filling Draco. The only downside to this was the tree-magic stuttered and faded.

"Touch yourself," Harry said. "I want you to come all over me, Malfoy."

A few tugs and Draco was coming in thick stripes all over Harry’s chest, onto his face, into his hair.

"Yes," said Harry. "Fuck, Draco."

Draco eased himself off Harry, and collapsed next to him.

"Were we trying to see who could get the other one to come first again?"

"And I won."

"Malfoy."

"Potter."

Draco turned his head so he could kiss Harry again. "It is wrong that it really turns me on when you call me Malfoy?"

"Only if it’s wrong that when you call me Potter, I want to drop to my knees and take you into my mouth."

Draco’s heart felt as though it missed a beat or two. "Oh Merlin, Harry, you are going to be the death of me."

"And you me," Harry whispered. He waved his hand, and a light breeze washed over them, taking away all stickiness and cooling come with it.

"I don’t care what you say about the trees, your wandless magic is also a bit of a turn on," Draco said. "Do you really use it to…"

"Fuck myself on a magic tree dildo?" said Harry.

Draco’s thoughts stopped entirely for a few seconds. "How does that even work?"

"If you’re a very good boy, maybe I’ll show you some day."

Draco groaned, and then Harry pulled a couple of blankets and pillows from his bag, and they made themselves comfortable for the night. Above them the trees held black skies that twinkled with stars, and Draco was lulled to sleep by insects, a soft breeze, and the reassuring presence of Harry beside him.

*

On Saturday, Draco woke to birdsong, a cold back, and soft green light. He remembered where he was, and turned over to see Harry already dressing beside him.

"And now you’ve woken up early, too," Harry said. "See, it’s easy out here."

As Draco was beginning to shiver he could agree that yes, it was easy to wake up. Together with Harry he dressed and helped pack up the camp. He was not really surprised when Harry told him to take his morning piss in the woods. With that out of the way, they did began their daily routine: collecting water and firewood, before lighting a fire and drinking coffee together.

Draco hated to admit it, but as he’d woken early they were finished tending to the vegetables sooner than usual, leaving plenty of time to spend in and out of the water.

There was no moment when Draco was not conscious that this was their last day alone like this. His last day when he could swim naked with Harry amongst the tiny silver fishes. The first day he could stop and kiss Harry in the middle of the pool.

First, and last day.

They climbed to the top of the waterfall, and jumped in, bodies plummeting down through the water yet not quite touching the bottom. Draco opened his eyes under the water, the pool a blue-green world of moving edges, the light a series of mirrors above. He stuck his head in the feather-light white plume of the waterfall, the sensation of hundreds of bubbles on his face as refreshing as the swimming and jumping had been.

Sitting on a rock, Draco watched Harry climb onto a ledge opposite and perform perfect dives into the water. Eventually Harry grew bored and swam over to Draco’s side of the pool. He reached up, his face water-cold, and gave Draco a kiss before climbing out and draping himself across a rock in full sun.

"It isn’t fair," Draco said. "We wasted so many afternoons."

"It doesn’t matter," Harry said, "Because we are doing it now." Now sun-warmed, he came to join Draco in the shade. "Although it would have been great if you could have embraced naked bathing a bit sooner."

A kiss turned into an urgent handjob, and then a snooze in the dappled shade of some nearby trees.

Sated and sleepy, and watching dragonflies dip down above the water, Draco was almost asleep when a thought occurred to him and he burst out laughing.

"What is it?" Harry murmured drowsily beside him.

"Monsieur Pas-de-baguette."

"What?"

"It’s what Guillaume called you. I completely forgot that ‘baguette’ also means ‘wand’ in French."

"Oh yeah, I forgot he had a silly name for me." Harry yawned. "It saves us having to use my actual name."

"Mr No-Wand." Draco turned to Harry. "He was telling me you didn’t have a wand back then."

"He thinks I’m crazy, a wizard in the woods with no wand."

"Does he know who you are?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Does it matter? As long as he doesn’t tell people where they can find me."

"Except he told me."

"You must have won him over with your good looks or something." Harry yawned again.

Not his good looks, Draco realised looking back. Ollivander’s name.

Light reflected from the water moved in ever-changing lines on the rocks by the water. It seemed right that Harry went by this childish name, as he really didn’t care how he was seen.

He drifted off again, thinking that maybe the only names that counted after all were simply Harry, and Draco.

*

Although neither mentioned it, the sadness of the day increased as the hours went on. By nightfall, they were both sat at the table with nothing left to say to each other. Instead, Harry looked at his hands, and Draco looked at Harry. His thick hair was soft, Draco knew now, and he longed to run his hand through it; he longed to touch Harry.

"Come to bed with me," Draco said. "I want to know what it’s like to be here with you," _before your friends arrive_.

In answer, Harry lit a candle, blew out the lamp in the living room, and carrying the candle in one hand, took Draco’s in the other, and pulled him to the bedroom. Once he’d put the candle on the bedside table, Harry sat on the edge of the bed, and didn’t move.

Draco came to sit beside him, and took his hand. Then he kissed Harry, and they sat, arms loosely around each other, and simply held onto one another. After a while, Draco shivered and sat back.

"I guess this is it."

"I guess so."

"Why do I feel so sad?"

"Because whatever happens tomorrow, we know it’s not going to be naked swimming."

Draco was quiet, while he tried to work out how to say the thing that had been on his mind since Harry had mentioned it.

"You’re thinking again," Harry said, stroking the back of Draco’s hand. "Talk to me."

"I have been thinking," said Draco. "You’re right." He swallowed, not sure how Harry would take this. "About you and your magic tree dildo."

Harry burst into laughter, laughing until he had to hold onto his sides. Draco decided not to be offended by this as it was rather a leap of topic. He began to laugh too, but no matter how funny the word ‘dildo’, he had meant it. His laughing eased and he kept his eyes on Harry until he too calmed.

After wiping tears from his eyes, Harry composed his face, and put his chin on his hands. "Oh yes?"

Draco glared at him and his listening pose, but forged on. "Is it made from wood, or from the… magic force, or whatever it was, like you used on me yesterday?"

"Depends," said Harry, sitting back a bit, and looking a little more serious now. "On what’s available, how I’m feeling."

Draco was silent for a few moments. "OK. So... does that mean that sometimes you’re not averse to something up your arse?"

Harry’s eyes widened, and his skin darkened. "If you are asking me, Draco Malfoy, if you can stick your dick up my arse, the answer is very much, yes."

Draco’s cock, already half ready for action, filled to rock-hard as soon as Harry said this.

"Oh good," he said.

"Now that’s impressive," Harry said, leaning forward and nudging the outline of Draco’s cock with his hand. He bent forward to plant a kiss on it, then sat up and grinned.

For all Harry’s talk of tree magic and dildos, Draco suspected that the truth was that it had been a long time since Harry had slept with anyone. Harry had obviously been with men at some point, because he wasn’t totally clueless, but Draco wasn’t sure whether he’d bottomed before. A dildo was one thing, sex with another human could be quite something else.

Draco gently pulled Harry up towards him so they were both sitting opposite each other. Harry’s cock, too, he noticed, was tenting his shorts.

"I want to check: are you sure?" Draco asked. "Have you done this—"

"I’m sure," Harry said. "And… I haven’t. But I want to, with you."

Draco kissed Harry, hard and deep, putting his desire and his residual sadness from the day into it. "I’m going to do this properly." He wanted to take his time: it was their last night alone together, and he didn’t want to waste a minute of it.

"You can try to be as good as me, Malfoy," said Harry with a glint in his eye, "but it’s going to take some doing."

Draco’s cock twitched. "Is that a challenge, Potter?"

Harry grinned. "It is."

"First we are going to have to get naked."

Harry took off his clothes and threw them on the floor. "Ready." He sat on the bed, bouncing slightly, his cock bouncing with him.

Draco was still unbuttoning his shirt and shorts, which he then folded neatly and placed on the chair.

"Are you always so messy?"

"Yep. Sorry." Harry did not look sorry at all, instead stretching out on the bed and smiling up at Draco.

"I’ll be back in a second," Draco said, padding to the other room to fetch some oil.

"Lie down on your front," he said when he got back, and then he straddled Harry and poured some of the oil in his hands. "I’d like to touch you all over," Draco said. "If that’s OK."

"Mmhmm," said Harry. "Yes."

Draco began to work his weight into the muscles of Harry’s back and shoulders, feeling out any points of tension and rolling them away.

"My dick is going to make a hole in this mattress," Harry said. "Just so you know."

"Patience," Draco said. "Like an oak tree."

"That’s the problem," Harry said. "It is like an oak tree."

Draco’s own cock was beginning to leak at the end. His hands were warm from touching Harry, and Harry’s skin was glowing where Draco had been working on it. Draco marvelled at the sight: it reminded him of the way a tree could look so solid and yet have this deep centre of silence, of soul or life or whatever you wanted to call it. In Harry’s case, he could see Harry’s warmth and vitality glowing from him. It was like seeing Harry’s soul shining out, in some strange way.

Draco moved farther down the bed, ready to move onto the next part of the massage. "I’m going lower now."

Harry answered by groaning, and sticking his arse up a little. Draco smiled: as well as soul, Harry was also showing a fair degree of horniness, which was what he had been aiming for.

With both hands, Draco moved his thumbs in even circles. Applying pressure, he worked on Harry’s lower back, moving in lines around the dips there, then slowly, slowly, moved down to the top of Harry’s arse.

"Ungh," Harry said, as Draco skimmed the very top of the crease there. And then he groaned as Draco moved to Harry’s buttocks, getting them to glow as much as his back did. They felt round and satisfying under Draco’s hands. Draco could feel the heat of his hands, the way the heat between them merged and grew with each stroke.

Only when Harry’s body seemed completely loose to Draco, did Draco sit back and admire his handiwork.

"OK," he said. "I think I’d like you to roll over now. Let’s see how bad the damage is to the bed."

"Har har," Harry said, but his voice sounded muffled, slow. Draco helped flip him over.

Harry’s skin was flush all over, and drool spilled from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were heady and dark, and he watched Draco through half-closed lids. His cock was engorged, and dark, and it too was leaking slightly.

Deeply satisfied at the knowledge that Harry was already coming undone, Draco gave him an approving pat on the leg. "You’re almost ready," Draco said.

He got Harry to raise up his hips, and put a couple of pillows under to keep them raised. "Now relax. I’ll take good care of you."

"Go on then, Malfoy," Harry drawled the words out, and gave his hips a wanton little wiggle.

The old-new thrill of hearing his name said like that by Harry travelled through Draco. He reached over to the side table, finding his wand, then got down onto the bed between Harry’s legs, and parted them a little. "This might feel a little… fresh," he said, bringing his wand to Harry’s arse. He cast the best cleaning charm he knew, aiming deep.

"Fuck!"

"Sorry," Draco said, putting his wand down, and stroking Harry’s arse until he relaxed back into the pillows.

And then he bent down and kissed Harry, very gently, on the skin between his arse and his balls. He let his lips rest there a moment, then kissed Harry again. The heat of Harry’s skin under his hands had been one thing, but touching Harry with his mouth on this tender part of his body was in another league entirely. Soft skin, the rich scent of arousal, the heat of blood pulsing… Draco drank them all in.

"Fuck," Harry said again, this time in almost a whisper. Draco could hear him breathing, shallow low breaths.

"Breathe," Draco said. "I’m going to make you feel so good."

"You already are," Harry said.

Draco brought his mouth to Harry’s skin again, this time licking it softly. Harry’s skin was warm, and Draco could smell the intoxicating scent of balls and sex. Harry writhed under him.

Going slowly, Draco licked small licks down the perineum, down to the crack of Harry’s arse. Holding Harry’s cheeks apart gently, Draco started to lick lower until he reached Harry’s hole. Now he switched to licking in gentle circles. Harry twisted again, and a low, deep groan escaped him.

Draco’s own cock was digging into the bed almost painfully, and it twitched almost violently at the sound of Harry’s groan, but he didn’t care. All his attention now was on Harry, on the dark shadowed space in front of him. He could feel the pucker of Harry’s arse quiver and loosen beneath his tongue, and began to lick stripes from bottom to top. Gradually, he increased the pressure, until Harry’s hips began to buck and his body twist.

Draco sat up. His own body felt alive, electrified, from the slight ache of his hands from massaging, to the fresh ache in his tongue from licking. Looking down, he saw sweat darkened and flattened Harry’s hair, his eyes closed while his chest rose and fell as he panted.

Harry’s eyes snapped open, revealing dark eyes, filled with desire.

"Fuck me, Draco. Fucking fuck me. Please."

Draco responded by placing this thumb on Harry’s hole, feeling it open slightly at the touch. He got the oil, poured more on his hands, then returned his thumb to the hole. With small circles he rubbed the oil on, then pressed into the closed heat of Harry’s arse.

The candle cast long flickering shadows onto the wall, and in its light everything was soft. Draco moved up on the bed, rose to his knees, and finally lined himself up to enter Harry. Draco’s own heart felt shaky, and everything was almost too much. His cock ached with need, and the first few moments as he pressed into that ring he had softened with his own mouth were almost too much.

With care, Draco pushed all the way in. The whole time, he watched Harry’s face. He watched how Harry’s lips moved in synch with every increased slide in, how they widened and stretched as his arse widened and stretched. Draco forced himself to drag in a breath, his chest still feeling as though it might explode.

Once fully seated, the ragged sound of both their breathing filled the room. Sweat dripped from Draco’s nose, a wet splash onto Harry beneath him. He didn’t think he’d ever concentrated this hard, not even when trying to make a wand.

And then, slowly, he began to move.

"Ooh fuck!" Harry said again, a loud cry that shook the candle flame. "Fuck me, Draco," he added in a whine.

Draco was too in his body for words, so responded instead by building up to a rhythm of in and out.

Harry’s mouth moved in silent words, and for a while the only sounds to fill the room were the creak of the bed, the slide of flesh on flesh, and the moans that both made with each thrust of Draco’s hips.

Harry opened his eyes, and stared directly at Draco. The look they shared felt more intimate than anything his cock was doing; Draco had fucked men before, but it had never felt like this. As though by some unspoken agreement they shifted, Draco lowering himself and Harry bringing his knees up so their bodies were close, face to face.

The kiss they began then – a kiss filled with grunts and groans, a kiss both leisurely and more intense than any Draco remembered having before – lasted until Draco’s thighs began to shake and a great orgasm took him, pumping into Harry and ending the kiss with a cry. His body limp, somehow Draco pulled out and lowered himself down Harry’s body, to take Harry’s straining hot cock into his mouth and sucking hard, until he too was full of Harry’s come.

They fell apart, both breathing heavily. Draco felt so depleted he didn’t think he could have lifted a finger, let alone an arm or a leg.

Once his breath had settled to something less fraught, Draco turned his head to look at Harry. Dark eyes met his, and all at once Draco saw that something had happened for Harry, that this had touched him in some way.

"I was with you," Harry whispered. "I was with you the whole time."

Understanding dawned, bitter and sweet, in Draco. Sometimes Harry hadn’t been with him, not all the time. But this time, he had.

Draco smiled at Harry, and Harry smiled back. Beside them, the candle flame seemed to dance, casting its warm light over them both.

*

Sunday the sun hid, and dull white clouds filled the sky. Draco and Harry woke, their bodies half-entwined, their limbs sticky with sweat.

Taking his coffee out onto the veranda, Draco felt robbed of his last day of sunshine. His knee, too, ached in this cooler weather. At the same time, he knew it didn’t matter. He had to face up to the truth that whatever idyll he’d found with Harry, it couldn’t last.

With a heavy heart, Draco fetched firewood while Harry got the water. They decided to forego the garden just this once, so that they could be around when Granger and Weasley arrived. Draco found that he didn’t want to be far from Harry, that when they were near to one another he wanted to touch Harry, and that Harry too seemed to be making sure that a hand touched a shoulder, or their sides pressed together as they sat.

"They Portkey into Marseille, and then the rest is on brooms with charms to hide them from the Muggles. Ron loves it, but Hermione hates it. She never really did like flying that much."

"I’ve never known somewhere so hard to get to."

Harry shrugged. "It’s one thing I like about being here."

"Harry," Draco said, and Harry smiled at his name, "you like being alone here, don’t you?"

"Yes," Harry said, so quickly that disappointment pricked at Draco. "It’s a lot less stressful than being the centre of attention, all the time. The… temptations aren’t the same."

And what was Draco, then? Another temptation? Another way to numb the feelings?

"I guess you’ll be alone again soon enough."

"I guess. Although…" Harry looked up at Draco, squeezed their joined hands. "It’s been… it’s been great having you here." He hooked Draco’s shirt and pulled him closer. "I wonder what life would have been like if we’d done this sooner."

"Oh, I think we’d both still be a mess."

"Well-fucked though."

"I should have known you’d be all crude about it."

Harry leant in for a kiss. "You bring it out in me," he whispered before he pulled Draco closer, and kissed him with his usual determination. Draco melted into the kiss, finding that his thoughts lost their hold when his body felt alive; he could feel the heat of Harry’s body on his.

"Hi, Harry!" Granger’s voice rang out from amongst the trees.

Draco’s body stiffened, and he made to pull back, but Harry kept his hand on the lower part of Draco’s back. "I don’t care," he whispered in Draco’s neck. "I’m not ashamed of you, I won’t hide this."

Granger appeared, a broom in her hand and twigs in her hair. Draco wondered whether there was a tree out there with a Granger-shaped hole in it. "I got separated from Ron, I can never remember which bit we’re supposed to land in, and my legs were all stiff after being on the broom so long, but never mind, I’m sure Ron will find us s—"

She stopped as she caught sight, properly, of Draco and Harry, entwined on the veranda.

"Oh." She blinked a few times. "How lovely to see you, Draco. Harry said that you were here."

Draco’s body had not relaxed at all, and Harry, perhaps finally accepting Draco’s discomfort, released him from their embrace.

"Hello," Draco said.

A memory came to him, of sitting at the eighth-year table at school. Harry had been with his friends, Draco to one side with Stephen Asher and Claire Stenley, two of the Hufflepuffs who’d taken him under their wing despite who he was. Stephen and Claire were very kind people, but Draco had little in common with them other than a tendency to want to hide, a desire to stay safe and live a quiet life. For them, it was nature, for Draco the result of bitterly learned lessons. This particular day they sat together talking about Muggle television, which sounded inane as well as meaningless to him, and his attention wandered.

"What about her?" Weasley was asking, and Draco realised that the golden trio were looking over at where he was sitting. He tried his best to become invisible.

"What’s her name? Is it… Laura? Clara? I think she dropped her quill earlier, I was going to let her know Professor Sprout had it," Potter said. Weasley shrugged.

And in that moment Draco realised that he was sitting with the students whose names were not known, not even after eight years. He himself had fulfilled so many of his early dreams of Harry Potter knowing who he was, but at what cost?

That moment had come before any of their little chats that year. In it though, he had grasped the essential truth that he had been delusional to want to stand out. He was going to have to reframe what it meant to mean something in the wizarding world, because whatever he’d been aiming for, it hadn’t worked.

He had watched, discreetly, as Potter, Weasley, and Granger talked. They talked about plans for the future, about where they wanted to travel to, about magic they wanted to learn.

Some part of him still wished to be sitting there with them, still felt the unfairness of never being let in, but he knew his place. He turned back to Stephen and Claire.

Looking at Granger in the forest, and Weasley crashing out from the trees behind, Draco thought it likely they still didn’t know who Claire Stenley or Stephen Asher were.

And they were unlikely to let him in now, were they? Having slept with Harry wouldn’t make any difference. Fighting a battle with Claire and Stephen hadn’t.

"Harry!"

"Hi Ron."

"You look wilder than ever, mate. Have you built that treehouse yet?"

"Not this year. I’d still love to though."

Draco could imagine Harry living in a tree. Although perhaps sleeping on the ground suited him better.

Weasley turned his attention onto Draco. "Wow, Malfoy, you look different," he said by way of greeting. "Your hair is so pale, and you’ve got a bit of a tan, and you look all relaxed and—"

He stopped when his girlfriend elbowed him in the ribs. She leant over and whispered something in his ear, and he blanched.

"Hello." Draco had decided that although Harry could be Harry, Weasley and Granger had not earned the privilege of his using their given names. Yet. If he could avoid using any names at all, it might make things simpler between him and Harry; he imagined Harry would have opinions on what Draco called his friends.

Harry took Draco’s hand in his own, and this time Draco let him link fingers. Harry was the one who mattered to him here, not the other two.

"Come in," Harry said. "I bet you could do with something to eat and drink after your journey. We have everything ready for you."

Draco did not miss the look Weasley and Granger exchanged at ‘we’, but everyone came in without complaint.

"Nothing’s changed," Granger said as she looked around.

"No need to change it, because everything works for me."

"It’s not a criticism. Please, Harry. It’s nice. Cosy."

Harry sighed. "I know. Sorry. I can light a fire if you want a cup of tea?"

"That would be lovely."

The wood was already stacked up, the kettle already full of water. For some reason – maybe because Draco had been lighting it with his wand most times, or maybe because Harry was distracted by the new arrivals – Harry absent-mindedly picked up Draco’s wand and lit the fire with a casually aimed spell, then fetched mugs and a teapot.

Granger caught Draco’s eye, her own wide with shock. Draco assumed that the startled look on his own face was enough to tell her that this was a new development.

"—we could go fishing tomorrow if you wanted, Ron," Harry was saying.

"Down by the river? Sounds like fun."

"Did you see that?" Granger whispered to Draco, having moved closer to him.

Draco nodded.

"Do you know about—"

"Monsieur Pas-de-baguette?"

She looked blankly at him.

"Monsieur No-Wand," Draco explained.

"Yes. Do you think… do you something’s changed?"

"I don’t know."

Harry was now laughing with Weasley; the two of them were holding their hands up to show the size of the fish Weasley claimed to have caught last year.

"Maybe it’s you," Granger said. She regarded him steadily, with unfrightened eyes. Draco felt the same grounded, peaceful feeling as though he were in the presence of a great tree. And then she smiled. "I’m glad you’re here."

Draco didn’t know what to say. But then he looked over at Harry again, and his smile and the way he stood: looking at home, relaxed, in the right place. "I’m glad I’m here, too."

He and Granger smiled at each other, for the first time ever.

"He’s much more… _Harry_ than I’ve seen him in a while," she said. "He’s been so alone." She sighed, long and deep, and in a sudden flash of insight Draco saw that it had never been the tent she’d been uncomfortable with, but seeing Harry so cut-off and alone. An unexpected tenderness bloomed towards Granger; now he cared about Harry, he felt connected to her in her concern, too.

"Did you bring the tent?"

"Oh yes. Did Harry tell you about it? It’s the tent we used when we were hunting the—" she stopped suddenly, looking as though she knew she had said too much. Draco had no idea what she was going to say: there was still a lot of mystery surrounding that year, and plenty of conspiracy theories to fill the gap. "Well, the year leading up to the battle. We lived in it for months. It’s much nicer having Harry’s place to visit. Sleeping in it is fine, but it’s cosier in here for meals."

"And it’s OK you getting the time off work?"

"It’s my holiday," Hermione said. "I love coming here, it’s so peaceful. And I miss having Harry around."

"How long are you staying?"

"A week. I hope we’re not intruding too much, but it sounded as though you were stranded here and—"

"It’s fine," Draco said, and internally kicked himself for saying those words again. "I should probably be getting back soon, I’ve been gone for weeks."

Granger regarded him with soft eyes. "I did bring a Portkey for you, but you can use it whenever you want. It’s a normal one, it goes to the International Portkey hub. I thought you wouldn’t want a Ministry one."

Draco shuddered at the thought of what would happen if he appeared unexpectedly in a Ministry space. "Thank you," he said.

"Give me a hand, Draco," Harry called over, and Draco gave Granger a little bow, then went to see what Harry wanted.

While they drank their tea, with some of Harry’s bread and some honey, Draco was aware of Granger watching him from time to time. Rather than feeling judged, he felt an intelligent kindness in the way she looked at him. Had his experience of opening himself to the trees also opened himself to noticing more about people around him? He was definitely more aware of the feelings in the room than he had ever been before. It felt odd, like he had learned a new language while he was staying with Harry, and could now understand conversations he’d never even been aware of before.

The experience of sitting with Harry and his friends was different to anything Draco had experienced with them before. He felt so crowded by the unfamiliarity of it that after they’d drunk their tea, he told Harry that he’d go and check on the vegetables after all.

He didn’t say it, but he needed some time alone to make sense of how he was feeling.

*

Draco was giving the vegetable garden a thorough weeding, and had covered most of it. He paused for a moment, took a swig from his water bottle, then set to again. Digging at the soil was helping him release some of the tension he felt, although as thoughts rose up he still jabbed particularly viscously at the tiny green shoots that sprang up between the rows.

The three of them made it seem so easy, sitting with them and drinking tea, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. But it wasn’t. It hadn’t been, not since they’d first met at school. He felt the old curl of shame at the knowledge that he’d called Granger a Mudblood, and the older curl of anger at remembering that they’d both hit him over the years. Plus he almost felt… he almost felt as though the easiness of it all was selling out the years of loneliness, after the war.

And if it wasn’t easy being with them, how was it being with Harry? Although, those chats in the eighth year… maybe they would have ended up in bed with each other ten years ago if Harry hadn’t run away. Maybe not, because back then he couldn’t think of himself sexually, let alone anyone else. He’d been too hurt, for a long time, to let himself be with someone else like that.

"Malfoy."

Draco looked up. Weasley was stood at the edge of the clearing, wearing a hat even bigger than Draco’s. Carefully, Draco took a deep breath, and tucked away his thoughts.

"Did Harry make you wear that?" Draco asked.

"Worse, Hermione. The first time we came out I refused, thought charms would be enough but the sun here gets hot. Red hair, pale skin."

Draco smiled, and pointed at his own hat. "I had something similar."

"Anyway, I’ve been sent to call you back. Harry’s planning on cooking up a storm, he wanted to see what you’d bring back."

"I haven’t got everything yet," Draco said. "I’ve got some radishes, and some courgettes, and a couple of beetroot. I’ll just pick a few tomatoes and check to see if any of the cucumbers are ready."

"I can give you a hand if you want."

Weasley collected together all the weeds Draco had pulled up, while Draco finished off the row he was on. Thankfully Weasley didn’t need much instruction, as Draco was not in the mood for talking. They tidied away the tools in silence, then headed back to the cabin.

"You do look different to how I remember you," Weasley said. "You look… more relaxed."

"It’s being here," Draco said. "I love it here."

"You… I was surprised when Hermione said you were here. I’ve seen you, around Diagon."

"Luna’s ice creams are good."

"They are." Weasley went silent, and they walked past a couple of trees without saying anything. Draco’s thoughts weren’t packed away carefully enough, because they came spilling up again.

"I know," Draco said, "that no matter how different my life is now, back at school and during the war I did some terrible things."

"My brother has to take Wolfsbane because of you. And one of my brothers isn’t here at all because of Death Eaters."

 _Like you_. The words were unsaid, but hung between them anyway.

Draco stopped, and touched Weasley on the arm so he’d stop too. Without saying anything, he rolled up the sleeve of the shirt he was wearing over a t-shirt – a deliberate clothing choice that morning because of this very issue. Barely visible, the Dark Mark lay like a smudge of dirt on his arm.

"I’m not going to pretend that I didn’t do those things, that I didn’t take this mark. I want you to know that I am sorry, for all of it. I don’t expect it to make any difference. But I also want you to know that I was terrified, that my family was threatened, and that I saw things in my own home that still give me nightmares."

Weasley stared down with horror. "I’ve never seen one this close. I... I didn’t realise they’d fade like this."

"Part of me wishes it would fade entirely, but another part thinks it’s better this way. I can’t erase my past. I have to live with it."

Weasley looked up, and there was a sharpness to his gaze that Draco hadn’t been expecting.

"Have you and Harry talked about this stuff?"

"Yes. We’ve talked a bit about both our experiences." Draco didn’t mention that some of those discussions had taken place ten years before. "I… I don’t want to excuse my actions, but it took a lot for me to see the world differently from my parents."

"I… I think I can get that bit. The rest… it’s hard, right, you get that?"

"I do. And I’m not asking you to be my friend."

"I care about Harry, and you and he are… well, doing whatever you’re doing. I guess… truce?"

Draco put a hand on the birch tree nearest them, and held the other out to Weasley. "Truce."

The walked the rest of the way back in silence. However uneasy things were with Weasley, when he’d touched the birch tree Draco had been able to sense the sincerity of the peace they had agreed.

*

Harry was indeed cooking up a storm – three types of salad, and he had brought up a load of cheese from the cellar, as well as making one of his wonderful mushroom risottos and a big pot of stewed fruit. He’d even made a fresh batch of bread.

Draco sat back during the meal, watching the conversation flow between the three friends. He saw a different side to Harry, one that he recognised from school, except Harry was 30 now, not some half-grown 15-year old.

"—so Ernie says he doesn’t believe him, and Neville says it’s true, and in the end they both ate about 20 leaping toadstools each!" Weasley sat back and laughed.

"That is such a disgusting story, Ron, why do you always tell it when we’re eating?"

"Because the look on Ernie’s face when he realised that proving his point meant eating a ton of leaping toadstools is priceless!"

"Neville always had more up his sleeve than he showed," Harry said.

It was like watching a conversation with a time lag. Weasley and Granger had lots of current stories to tell Harry about all their friends, while Harry’s reference points were much older. There was a strange dissonance to the whole thing. And then there was Draco, one step outside of the three of them. They talked about people who were not part of his memories of school, but who he knew had been there. It was like Draco knew the titles of the books, but they had actually read them. It was all rather strange.

"Do you remember when he tried to stop us in the first year?" said Granger.

"And Dumbledore gave him points for standing up to us?" Harry added.

"Should have known he’d end up being chased by half the witches in London," Weasley finished.

The three of them laughed, and Draco realised they didn’t even notice that he wasn’t laughing with them. He didn’t know what they were talking about; he hadn’t understood the extra points thing at the time. Often it had felt as though Dumbledore was talking just to Harry when he addressed the school, and the way they talked seemed to confirm that idea.

At the end of the meal, Draco offered to wash up. The rest nodded, and for the briefest of moments he wondered whether this was how a house-elf felt. Except that house-elves, whatever Granger said, would have thought doing the washing up was the best part of the evening.

"Do you mind if I head down to the tent for a bit with Ron and Hermione?" Harry asked, interrupting his thoughts. "Ron says he’s got some Butterbeer stashed away, I haven’t had any for years."

"It’s fine," Draco said.

After they left, Draco finished the washing up, dried everything, and put it all away. He sat in the empty cabin, and thought about how he’d spent the night before. His skin could still remember Harry’s touch, and he shivered. The candlelight filled the room with shadows as well as light, and he stared into the darkness. He tapped his foot on the floor, aware that there was tension in his body that had nowhere to go. Somewhere out there in the darkness Harry was laughing and joking with his friends – his real friends, his oldest friends.

Draco wasn’t quite ready for sleep yet, but what other options were there? Maybe he could string it out a bit: one trip to the outhouse, then he could brush his teeth, maybe read one of Harry’s books about trees. Then maybe he would be relaxed enough for sleep.

When he got outside, he heard a snatch of laughter through the trees, and wondered again what Harry was doing. Had they… could they have wanted to go off to talk about the terrible Draco Malfoy? What were they saying?

He took the long way round to the outhouse, the way that passed the tent.

"Is this why you told me to take your time getting here?" Granger whispered. It was still loud enough for Draco to hear each word clearly. Draco kept up the pretence that he was on his way to the outhouse, but made an effort to keep walking quietly.

"You old dog, Harry," Weasley said. "Although Malfoy, really?"

Draco stopped mid-step, and lowered his foot. He could hear his own breath in the dark. He waited.

"Don’t listen to him," Granger said. "It’s just so lovely that you’re not alone anymore."

"I don’t mind being alone," Harry said. "And that’s not why I said to take your time. Draco needed enough time to learn the things he needed, for his apprenticeship. Plus that water barrel is really heavy."

"How’s it going to work? Doesn’t he need to go back to London? I did bring him that Portkey."

Draco had seen her give it to Harry, who had nestled it in one of the tea cups on the dresser. He had been aware of the Portkey – a large clothes peg – all evening.

"I don’t know," said Harry. "Does it matter? I’ve… we’ve… it’s been good. But… he’s got his life planned."

Draco could almost hear the _just like you_ at the end of that. Was that how it was for Harry? He lived amongst the trees in a bubble of space and time, and everyone else kept moving around him. Everyone ended up leaving him behind. Was that what would happen for them, too?

"I’ve only spent a day with the two of you, but it seems it could—"

"I know you and Ron have something special, but you can’t assume it’s going to be the same for everyone else. This has only just happened for me! I have no idea if it can work. We haven’t talked about anything yet."

Weasley’s voice came through the air next. "Malfoy seems… I guess we’ve all grown up. He apologised to me today. But he’s still… Malfoy." The last word came loaded with the heaviness of loss, and anger.

"Yes, he is," Harry said, neither apologising for Draco nor defending him. "He’s… I think we understand something about each other." There as a sly pause. "Plus he’s amazing in b—"

"Stop!"

Draco stood a little taller at Harry saying he was amazing in bed, even if it hadn’t been meant entirely seriously.

"You look like a beetroot." Granger sounded amused, and fond.

"He’s doing it on purpose!"

"Maybe." Harry sounded though he were sporting a cheeky grin on his face.

"I’m glad," said Granger. "Not about you winding Ron up – although it is nice to see you remembering how to have fun. I’m glad you’ve had this time with Draco. He seems… different to how I remember him. More open."

"Yeah," said Harry, "He’s grown on me these past weeks."

"And I hope you don’t me saying this," she continued slowly, "but you seem different, too."

"I feel more… I don’t know. I’m not as scared anymore." Harry went silent, and Draco was about to turn and leave when he spoke again, his voice quiet but full of weight. "I’m sorry I haven’t been more welcoming," Harry said. "Having Draco here’s helped me realise I can have friends in my life."

"Oh, Harry, it’s so good to hear you say that."

Draco could hear the warmth in Granger’s voice. His heart swelled for Harry, but at the same time this felt like trespassing; he began to feel guilty about eavesdropping. Tents weren’t very soundproof, it was true, but maybe he didn’t need to be standing here listening.

"Does this mean that we’re alright again?" Weasley asked, his voice gruff with emotion.

"Yeah," Harry said, after a pause. "It does."

Draco crept away. He’d intruded enough by staying as long as he had.

*

"Draco." Harry’s whisper roused him in the dark.

Draco had stripped naked, and got into bed hoping that Harry would be back soon. He’d waited long enough though, that he had begun to drift off.

"I was hoping you’d come back."

"I hate that tent," Harry said cheerfully. "I’ve got so many miserable memories of being in it."

"And yet," Draco said, sitting up a little, "You sound as though you had a wonderful time."

"I did." The bed moved as Harry sat on its edge. "I haven’t talked with Ron and Hermione like that in… years. I… I hope it was OK, me going off like that with them?"

"They’re your friends. You haven’t seen them in what, a year?"

"Yeah." Harry was quiet, then began to pull off his t-shirt. He would probably throw it on the floor. Draco, who had been very neat while staying in the room, had been a little shocked to see how casually messy Harry could be. "It’s been too long. I… I think I’d like to see them more often now."

"Can they get away that easily?"

"I could… maybe I could visit them at their place. Or the Burrow. It would be nice to have a proper Christmas."

 _And what about me?_ the little voice inside of Draco said. It sounded a bit pathetic, so he decided to ignore it. If he’d learned anything over the past couple of days, it was that he should enjoy the moment he was in, not worry about the past or the future.

Draco ran a hand across Harry’s back. Harry was all warmth and skin, and he stopped moving for a moment, then turned and bent down to kiss Draco with a mouth that tasted of Butterbeer and chocolate frogs. He got a hand under the covers, and hummed in appreciation.

"I see you dressed for the occasion," he said, as his hand ran over Draco’s thighs, then skimmed across his cock and balls. He kissed Draco again. "It’s very nice coming to bed and finding you in it."

"I could make it nicer for you," Draco said. "But you need to dress for the occasion, too."

Harry shucked off the rest of his clothes, and climbed into bed with Draco. They kissed, but although he felt the warmth of the kiss and his body began to respond, the little voice inside Draco wouldn’t quiet down. He backed off.

"Are you OK?"

"I’m… I’m not fine," Draco said. He lay back, away from Harry. "It’s strange, seeing you with your friends."

Harry sighed and pulled his knees up, wrapping his arms around them. "It’s been strange and wonderful today, seeing them. Usually it’s all a bit awkward, but today it’s been… more like old times."

"I…" Draco didn’t know how to say how he was feeling, or even where to start. The ‘old times’ for him were not, he suspected, filled with the same warm memories as Harry. "It’s good you could be happy today."

"I feel as though I need to relearn how to be friends with them. I _want_ to. The old times aren’t quite enough, and we’ve changed, all three of us. But… I want to work out how we can be together again. I… I’m glad they’re here this week. I need this time with them."

Harry had been so lonely, and maybe Draco had turned up and whatever this was that had happened between them had been like a key, opening a lock. Draco certainly felt unlocked himself. But now that Harry could be open to his friends again, did that mean he wouldn’t be alone anymore? Did it mean he didn’t need Draco anymore? It didn’t sound as though there would be space for Draco, in this relearning of friendships.

Also, Draco knew that he had simply been speaking the truth when he had told Granger and Weasley that he needed to go back. Hearing the trees was what he’d come out here for, and he had to go back to Ollivander and see what this meant for his apprenticeship.

"I’m sorry," Draco said, after a long pause. "I’m not sure if I can do this."

"This?"

"Fitting in with your friends. Working out what this is between us."

"Oh. Right." Harry hugged his knees closer.

"You keep saying how you want to be alone, it’s hard to hear because… being alone means me not being here."

"I’m not used to being around other people," Harry said. "Ten years is a long time."

"It is."

"But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you."

"For how long though? One day? One week? One month? It won’t be summer forever."

"The beech trees look amazing in the autumn. Leaves carpet the forest, it’s all aglow with gold and orange, reds and… it’s beautiful. It gets too cold to be outside at night, I start sleeping in here again. I’ve got loads of wood stored in the cellar for the winter. Every now and then I chop up a tree that’s fallen naturally. The cabin stays cosy enough."

Hearing Harry describe the cabin and woods in autumn, Draco knew that Harry was trying to entice him to stay. All he heard though, was the life he wouldn’t be there to share.

"I don’t think Ollivander is going to wait forever," he said. "I need to go back. I need to see whether I can make wands."

"I… I know," Harry said. His voice had become small. Sad.

"I don’t know what we’ve started here," Draco said. "I don’t know how it’s supposed to work between us, between our lives. Maybe… maybe these few weeks – these last few days – are it. All of it." _Maybe this is goodbye_. The words were hard to say; they hurt coming up. Draco couldn’t bring himself to say the last ones aloud, but he thought that perhaps Harry had heard them anyway.

Harry was silent. Draco reached out, and found his hand. Harry’s fingers were cold, but curled open to accept Draco’s.

"Harry." Draco pulled Harry closer. "I don’t know what else I can do," he whispered. "I can’t run away to the woods like you did, I need to finish my apprenticeship."

He felt rather than saw Harry shake his head, and the shuddering in his breath as he did so.

"Draco."

Harry didn’t say anything more, but kissed Draco, deeply.

They moved together in quietness, with sadness and joy. With desperation. This time there were no jokes, no conversation. The darkness held them as they touched each other, found a moment of release from thoughts of the future, and eventually drifted off into an unquiet sleep.

*

Draco woke early, so early that there was still dew on the ground and mist in the air when he went to the outhouse. He pulled on some clothes, and left Harry sleeping in his bed. Although it had been Draco’s bed for a few weeks, seeing Harry alone in it, Draco suddenly saw that this was Harry’s room – including with the clothes strewn on the floor – and had been Harry’s room, alone, for years.

Draco visited the outhouse, then walked in the opposite direction to the Granger-Weasley tent, his feet taking him instead to the place he had learned to feel the trees. The place he and Harry had… a barrage of images flooded his mind. He wanted to be there again, to remember what it was like to feel as though he too were part of the earth, were growing from it.

The tall beech tree around which Harry normally slept did not seemed to have missed him. As Draco approached it, he noticed a gleam of silver; a tiny thread of white so white it shone like the moon.

A unicorn hair.

Was it chance, that had brought one so close to them, that had led it to brush up against this tree? Draco didn’t know, but what he did know – the vision leaping out at him in one vivid stream – was what he needed to do next.

Gently, as Harry had taught him, he asked the tree for a part of itself. He reached as high as he could, and touched the smooth grey bark of the lowest-hanging branch, whispering the way he felt about Harry along with his request to the heart of the tree. With a sigh-like sound the tree released a thick stick into his hand.

Draco bowed to the tree, and brought the stick to his heart for a moment. It wasn’t only a stick, he realised: as well as the sense of the tree as he held it, he also felt the depth of his feelings towards Harry, including his yearning sadness. Holding it, he felt a little less alone in the feeling. He breathed in, then let the breath out and stood there for a moment before he felt able to inspect it.

Yes, it was a good length, and not too thin. The shape was straight enough, but also you could see the living curve of it; it reminded him of the staff Harry had made him all those weeks before.

He set to, Transfiguring stones and leaves into the things he needed. Finally, once he had bored the finest of holes into the wood, he took off his t-shirt and used it to unhook the unicorn’s hair from where it still dangled from the bark of the tree.

With great care, he slid it into the heart of the wood, and sealed it shut.

A wand. He’d made a wand, and not any wand at that: he knew precisely who this wand was for. He didn’t need to try it out, because he knew it worked. He could feel it, when he held it. It felt like touching the tree.

Draco returned the Transfigured stones and leaves to their original forms, and bowed low to the tree.

And then he turned back to the cabin, the new wand in his hand.

*

_Dear Harry,_

_I think we both know that it’s time for me to go. You have given me more gifts than I ever could have expected to receive: patience, honesty, and the gift of knowing the soul of the trees. You and I have given each other our bodies, but I feel there is one other gift I can give you in return for all you have done for me. I hope it is the right time for you to have it. No, not hope - I know it is. I have faith in you, Harry, and I would like to think that you can have that faith in yourself, too._

_With all my heart,_

_Draco._

He left the new wand on the note, and took the Portkey that had been sitting in the teacup on the dresser since Harry had left it there. It was time to go home.

*

After the weeks of blue skies and still, hot afternoons, London was a shock. The skies were grey, and soft drizzle fell, giving the streets a misty, washed-out look. Draco’s leg felt stiff, the soft ache of the break a constant as Draco travelled in a daze, one foot following the other until he found himself back at Greg’s front door.

He stared at the key for a moment before unlocking the door. Draco hadn’t needed to use a key in weeks now, and there seemed something petty about all these boxes full of people, all locked up. The key itself looked strange in his hand, small and mundane. It looked like a Portkey, an object that meant nothing and could be discarded.

Draco opened the door, and found Greg and Millicent inside, the fire lit once more. Had London experienced any kind of a summer, or had it been cold and miserable the whole time? Such summers had been known to happen, and Draco was glad that he’d had those weeks of sun, blue skies, clear water and… and Harry.

He wasn’t going to think about Harry, not now. He didn’t have to: he could still feel Harry, over every inch of his skin, inside his head, inside his body.

"Draco, is that you?" Millicent called. "Where have you _been_?"

"Your mum told me you were safe," said Greg. "Don’t worry, I haven’t been sitting up nights worrying about you."

This rather suggested he had.

"I’m—" the word _fine_ died on Draco’s lips; he knew he wasn’t. "I’m back."

"You look like you’ve been on a nice jolly somewhere," she paused, looking confused. "You look different somehow… have you been touring the Med on a yacht with a millionaire playboy or something? I swear you look more well-fucked than normal."

"Ignore her," Greg said. "Come and sit down, have a cup of tea. Did you get your tree stuff sorted?"

Draco hadn’t thought this through, hadn’t worked out what he would tell his friends. Where could he possibly start? He could do with a cup of tea; all of a sudden he felt weak, and his leg – almost forgotten until now – felt as though it could give way under him. He left his bag by the door, and came to join them by the fire.

"I take it back," said Millicent, looking worried. "You’re limping. What have you done to your leg?"

Draco sank into an armchair, his body feeling every ache of his journey back, of the weariness of his soul.

"I fell out of a tree and broke my leg," Draco said. "There were no Healers around to fix it."

Millicent snapped out of her teasing mode into her professional one, as Draco had hoped she would. She was at his feet, wand in hand, before Greg had poured Draco tea into a hastily-Summoned cup.

The green diagnostic light she sent out from her wand travelled up and down his leg, before travelling back into her wand. Millicent held onto it for a moment, her eyes closed, as she took in whatever information the spell relayed to it.

She frowned. "Most curious," she said. "That was a bad break, Draco, you completely shattered your ankle." She pursed her lips. "And you had no Healer, no Skele-Gro?"

"I had… I had someone who set my leg."

"With magic," Millicent said. "Muggles would have had to operate. Everything went back to where it should have been, and the healing process was accelerated."

 _Straight and pointing in the right direction_ , Draco remembered Harry saying. In Millicent’s safe hands, Draco could finally acknowledge the hard ball of worry he’d been carrying since he broke his leg. "Is it… OK?"

"It’s still healing, but you’re limping because you’ve been compensating for it – it must have hurt a lot."

"It has done, but it’s been getting better." It probably didn’t help that Draco had been pushing it with all the fucking he and Harry had been doing, but he wasn’t going to say that to Millicent.

"I don’t recognise the magic though. It feels… organic. In fact, I’ve never seen a break healed quite like this. For some reason it makes me think of…"

"Yes?"

"Well, of a tree."

Draco began to laugh, because of course his leg felt like a tree. Greg and Millicent stared at him, and Draco realised his laughter was perilously close to becoming tears. He put his head in his hands, calming himself without having to see their faces.

"I don’t get it," Greg said. "Are you OK, Draco?"

"Do you want me to finish the healing for you?" Millicent said. "Whoever did this for you did a good job, but they weren’t a Healer."

Draco raised his head, and nodded.

She cast another spell, and this time a stream of white light entered his leg. He felt it – a white-hot heat that travelled through the bone, bringing with it an intense but mercifully brief pain – and then it was gone. The ache and the stiffness he’d felt all day had disappeared, as though they’d never been there. It was unsettling, as though a prop had been kicked out from under him. Draco moved his leg, as though trying to find the point of discomfort again.

"That hurt!" he said.

"I’ve found it easier not to give a warning. How does it feel now?"

"It feels…" Draco turned his ankles in circles, then stretched out his leg and pointed his toe. "It feels much better."

"It will still ache and twinge sometimes," Millicent said. "Thunderstorms, or when you’re over-tired. But most of the time it will be absolutely fine."

Draco sat back again, and closed his eyes. "Thank you." The others shut out, he sat with the rhythm of his breathing, and let his thoughts calm, too. When he opened his eyes, Greg and Millicent were both staring at him.

"If you don’t mind me saying, you seem very different today, Draco," Millicent said.

Draco sighed, and reached for his cup of tea. He stared into the flames for a moment, thinking about the last time he’d sat here looking into the fire.

"I did it," he said, looking at his friends. "I went off into the woods, and I learned how to hear the soul of trees."

"That’s good," Greg said.

"Yes, it is," Draco said, and gave a sad little smile. "It means I can continue my apprenticeship. I even made a wand when I was out there."

"You don’t look happy, though."

"I… I met someone, while I was out there." Draco pointed at his leg. "The one who healed this."

"Oh Merlin, and you fell for him, and then had to leave him behind to finish learning how to make wands?" Millicent said, understanding and concern written all over her face.

Draco nodded, feeling his tears rise again. He’d rather she was all gruff and bossy than understanding like this. He didn’t want to start crying, he hadn’t even unpacked yet.

"Sod tea," Greg said. "I’ll get us something stronger. You can tell us about it, if you want to."

It was strange, Draco thought, that while he had stayed with Harry they hadn’t drunk any alcohol. It hadn’t felt… needed, when they had the trees all around them. And that, Draco realised, was part of what being in the woods meant to Harry: no need to numb anything when connected to the network of trees.

There was a struggling sapling outside of Greg’s flat, a sycamore with beautiful leaves but only a few scrawny branches. No wonder they needed whatever Greg was bringing for them.

He sighed. He missed the trees. He missed _Harry_.

*

The sign above the door creaked in the breeze, and the day was dull and overcast, but apart from that, the shop looked unchanged from Draco’s last visit.

He had moped around in Greg’s flat for a couple of days, and then he had gone to see his parents. Or rather, he had gone to be away from London, to be somewhere with open spaces and trees. It hadn’t been the same though, not with his father’s brittle temper and his mother’s sadness, and not with the manicured woods and fields around the manor.

It was time, he knew that now, to return to Ollivander. Leaving Harry was pointless without fulfilling his wandmaking dream, so here he was, standing outside Ollivanders on a grey and windy day.

His feet felt as though they had lead weights attached, and Draco pulled his robes closer. He’d got so used to being warm that he was struggling a little with the English still-technically-summer-but-could-be-any-wet-windy-time-of-year weather.

Draco put his hand on the door, ready to push it open, when he felt a faint whisper run through him. He stopped, closed his eyes, and let himself sink into the feeling. This wood – this oak wood – was old and creaky, but under that was the sensation of being a great tree in an ancient forest, the seasons mere scratchings of time. The rushing song of life was still there, like an echo, under all the years the wood had been only a door.

A gasp-like sigh escaped Draco, and he opened his eyes, and looked at the door. The way the paint clung to the grain of the wood was familiar, yet he’d never felt anything from it before. He kept his hand there, feeling the wood singing through the years, his heart aching with the loss of no longer being in a forest.

He didn’t know if it ached for the door, or for himself.

" _Harry_." He whispered the word without meaning to. "Harry," he said again, his heart rising and swelling in his ribcage, until it was an ache that made it hard to see straight or even think.

He staggered back, releasing his hand from the contact with the wood. The edges of the world came back into his vision, but the heartache remained. Draco could barely breathe with the pain of it.

He stood, doubled over, taking great deep breaths as his body remembered where he was.

What was he doing here? Wands… wands could wait. But Harry? Draco had finally found what he didn’t even know he’d been looking for: someone to be himself with, someone who understood the regrets of the past, who was as much of a mess as he was. Someone who made the whole world seem lighter, when they were together.

"Harry," he said a third time, and turned away from Ollivander’s. He’d been an idiot to leave.

He didn’t know what to do: he’d spent all week preparing for the moment he walked through that door, and now he knew he couldn’t.

Not yet.

Without much awareness of what he was doing, Draco staggered to the nearest place he could think of where he could sit down, and think.

The bell tinkled as Draco stepped into the ice cream shop. At this time of day, on a drizzly morning, it was empty.

"Draco," Luna greeted him. "You look terrible."

"I…" No more words would come out.

She came out from behind the counter, and gently guided him to a table. "Sit," she said. "I’ll be back in a sec."

Draco sat down automatically, staring ahead at the pastel colours of the tables and walls without really seeing them. His mind was like the sea, the thoughts rising and falling, chopping and changing. Images of Harry, of swimming through clear water, jumbled alongside a rising panic of how he could get there, and a worry that it was already too late. Draco had left Harry behind, exactly as everyone else had done.

Like Harry had left Draco behind, all those years ago.

Luna returned, carrying two steaming cups of coffee. "Sometimes ice cream isn’t always the answer," she said. "I know I shouldn’t say that, but Draco, you really do look terrible." She sat beside him.

"I’ve made a mess of everything," Draco whispered.

Luna took his hands in hers, and he looked up into her silvery eyes he saw her worry for him. It was too much, and he looked away.

"Your hands are cold," she said. "And I should think that your head is full of Wrackspurts. It seems to me that you are trying to make some decision, but it’s all too hard right now."

He stared at her. How did she know?

"It’s written all over your face," she said softly. "You’re suffering."

Draco took in a shuddering breath, then, mortifyingly, began to cry. Before he knew it he was being enveloped in a hug that smelled of vanilla and sprinkles, and Luna was rubbing his back.

He held onto her as though she were a tree. She was like a birch tree, flexing in the wind, flighty to some but full of truth to others. In her arms, Draco felt it all. He felt the loss of his possible friendship with Harry, all those years ago. He felt the way he’d loosened and discarded the things that had been both his aims, and the reasons he continued to chastise himself. What did it matter if he made wands like Ollivander? Or made his mother proud? People would probably be suspicious of him all his life, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t live it. With a shuddering sigh Draco let himself be soothed by the gentle pressure of Luna’s hand on his back, and the safety of her hug.

When his tears had subsided a little, he sat back, and she gave him a sad smile.

"Thank you," he whispered.

In answer she slid his coffee towards him. She had remembered how he took it, black, while her milky one was filled with a slowly melting mound of marshmallows and rainbow sprinkles. Draco realised he was beginning to shiver, and he took the cup in his hands, grateful for the warmth.

"Back when I was a prisoner in your house," Luna said, "I used to worry about you. Your skin became so pale it was almost translucent. If I’d had any light to hold you up to, I think I could have seen through you.

"Sor—"

"We’ve done that already," Luna said, brushing his words aside. "I think you were as much a prisoner in that house as I was. Only…" she leant forward, "I was rescued, and you weren’t."

How hadn’t he seen before that she was like a tree? He could feel her energy, feel that she spoke with her own truth.

"I thought no one saw me," he said. "No one knew."

"I did," she said. "I couldn’t do anything to help you, and you couldn’t do anything to help me."

He nodded, and sipped the coffee. Its bitterness was a comfort.

"We’re not those hurt children anymore," she said. "So let me help you."

"How?" said Draco, the word coming out as more of a howl than he’d intended. "How can you or anyone help me?"

"Well, maybe you could start by telling me what it is that’s got you crying in the middle of an ice cream shop at ten o’clock in the morning."

Draco looked at Luna, at her with her hair already escaping the bun she wore for work, her pumpkin earrings, and floaty purple dress covered in golden stars. He’d given Greg and Millicent a sanitised version of what had happened with Harry, but he knew he couldn’t do that now: it was like lying while holding onto a birch tree.

"I found Harry Potter in the woods, and he taught me to… to unbutton myself. I learned to hear the soul of trees. I think I will be able to make wands now, but…"

Luna seemed unfazed by Draco’s mention of Harry being in the woods, and Draco realised she might be one of the people who knew where he was or still kept in some form of contact with him.

"But…" she prompted.

"But I think I feel for Harry…" Draco screwed up his courage, and made himself say the words he knew were there. "I think I love him. And I left him."

"You think you love him?"

Draco met her eyes, and saw the truth reflected there. "No," he said quietly. "I know I do."

She was silent a minute. "You’re here, not next door."

"I couldn’t go in. I need to find Harry."

"Then why are you still here?" Her expression changed, as though she’d suddenly made a connection. "Oh, the Wrackspurts!"

"The… what?"

"You’re trying to make a decision, but your head is a mess."

"Well…" Draco didn’t know what it was called, but his head was, as she put, it a mess. "But I’ve made my decision, I know I want to go."

She frowned. "How?"

"I could get a Portkey… I don’t have the money, but maybe Millicent or Greg can lend me some… and I don’t know the way from Marseille, and it takes days… oh, Merlin." He buried his head in his hands. "I don’t know how to get there."

"Ah," Luna said, sitting back in her chair, and a smile lighting her face. "Now I know why you’re here."

"Not for the coffee or the hug?"

"Those too." She shook her head, and took Draco’s hand in hers again. "Thank you, Draco. I know how I can help you now."

And she got up and walked out of the room.

Unless she had a Portkey to the south of France, or the Floo co-ordinates of someone in one of the tiny villages tucked among the hills, Draco didn’t see how she could help. Until, that was, she walked back in the room with a broom. It, like her dress, was painted purple, and written on the side were the words ‘Luna’s Ice Creams’ in pink and gold.

"I never use it," she said. "I was going to try deliveries, but my time is better spent in here. Go on." She thrust the broom into his hands.

"I…" he blinked. "Thank you."

A few minutes later, after another hug, he staggered out into the small courtyard behind the ice cream shop, Luna’s broom in his hand. Beneath the paint he wasn’t surprised to feel the tender strength of birch wood.

After casting a quick disillusionment and Muggle-repelling charm, he was ready. It was time to leave. He kicked off the ground, leaving the cobbles and crowded buildings of Diagon behind him.

*

Draco flew without thinking for the first hour, enough to clear the last of London’s sprawl. The second hour, his hands began to cramp. The wind blowing through his hair – his eyes protected by orange and silver goggles, as provided by Luna – helped first to calm him, then to clear his mind.

He stopped at the coast, walked around, peed behind some trees, sat and looked at the sea, trying to work out what he was going to say to Harry. What if Harry didn’t want to see him? He knew how hurt he’d been by Harry’s disappearance, and they’d only been sort-of friends then. Draco thought of Luna, and the way she tilted her head sometimes, as though listening to something not there. When he was with her, truths seemed simple, self-evident. All he could do was try.

Great rolling fields spread out beneath him, farmhouses and villages dotted along the way. The great snake of the motorway came into view every now and then, and Draco would fly near so he could read the road signs and check he was heading in the right direction. It seemed to Draco that the further south he flew, the warmer it became, although it was hard to tell with all the rushing wind.

By the time he arrived in Paris the sun was setting, casting long shadows over a city already jewelled by street and shop lights. He dismounted and hid the broom, then attempted to straighten up – he was stuck in a hunched position after so many hours on the broom – and went off to deal with the fact that he hadn’t eaten since the half-piece of toast he’d forced himself to eat that morning.

Draco caught sight of himself in a window’s reflection. His hair, fluffed up by a day in the wind, stuck straight up, and he was still wearing Luna’s goggles, pushed off his face. The whole effect was bizarre, and Draco stopped to stare. His skin had pink marks where the goggles were. He looked a fright.

He sighed. This wasn’t some jaunt in the city. He had taken the odd date to Paris, thinking it a romantic setting, but now everything looked a little too self-important and rather soulless. Trying to work out the kinks in his back as he walked, Draco found a large Muggle bookshop, windows spilling light onto the twilight pavement.

He’d been able to find his way to Paris, but after this Draco would need more of a plan. Having a plan was what Draco would normally do, not leaping onto a broomstick like some reckless Gryffindor, so Draco bought a map of France, before stopping in a small sandwich shop nearby. A counter ran against one wall, with three stools wedged beneath. This would be enough for his needs, and he got himself something to eat, along with another coffee, then spread the map out on the narrow counter.

First, he found Marseille, then Paris, looking at the distance between the two. But the land around Marseille didn’t look right, and he wondered where exactly it was Harry lived. There were several large forests or national parks marked on the map, and he wondered which was the one he had spent all those weeks in. Staring hard at the topographical lines only made his eyes hurt, and he sat back and sighed. If only Luna was here now, with an answer readily up her sleeve. Or Millicent, with her brisk efficiency. But all he had was himself.

He drank his coffee. He could go on to Marseille, and wait outside Guillaume’s shop. Yet his perusal of the map suggested that Harry’s place was more likely to be on the way to Marseille, and that if he could work out where Harry lived he would save himself a considerable amount of time.

His stomach made such a loud growling sound that Draco took a bite of his sandwich purely to quiet it. He had to chew for a long time before he could swallow though. The sandwich, which had looked appetising, now seemed too much, and Draco put it down and pushed it aside. What was he thinking, leaping off like this for a man after couple of days in bed together? Except that this wasn’t any man, was it? It was the man he’d spent most of his life puzzling over.

Draco rubbed at his eyes, but it did nothing to ease the way they stung with tiredness. His entire body felt stiff and exhausted. Luna’s broom was not designed for long flights, and his abdomen, thighs and buttocks all ached from holding a flying position for so long.

He was in the process of folding the map, before looking for a hotel for the night, when he spotted a familiar-looking line: a river, curving along a valley. It was near enough to Marseille that it could be Harry’s valley. Excited now, Draco deciphered the hills around it. Yes, this could be the place. And what did he have to lose?

Flying through the night was different to daytime flying. And Draco lost track of time, using the moon to guide him, following Muggle roads, stopping every now and then to check where he was on the map.

As the sun began to rise to his left, and as Draco began to wonder if he could go on or whether it would be better to stop and sleep under a tree like Harry, he finally spotted a familiar set of hills ahead of him.

The sun rose gold and white, painting the land below in colour, and filling the sky with a growing glow of light.

With so many trees carpeting the hills beneath him, it was hard for Draco to know where exactly to head. He remembered, then, the first time he had come into these woods, and the way he had sensed their magic. Hovering in midair, Draco closed his eyes and focused, trying to feel the magic that felt like home. Like Harry. Unlike the time before, he was aware of a whirl of trees; he could identify beech and birch, chestnut and oak, all intertwined.

The world felt peaceful, and calm.

He didn’t realise that the broom was sinking through the air until the first brush of a branch against his calf. Draco opened his eyes in alarm: he was sinking fast into the trees. He grabbed hold of the broom righted himself, then swung back up to see where he was. A glint of light caught his attention: deep in a rocky gorge, a rock pool, bigger than a cabin and fed by three waterfalls.

Draco flew down to the pool and dismounted. The rocks, not yet sun-warmed, were cold, and the place felt empty. He washed his face, picked up the broom, and headed along the familiar track to Harry’s place. It felt good to be moving again after the long night on the broom, and Draco noticed too that even with the aches of his journey, it was easier than it had been with his partially healed leg.

The cabin was exactly as Draco remembered it, but then it had been less than ten days since he’d left. A soft early-morning light now bathed the clearing, and it looked the same yet also unreal, like a dream. It was as though Draco had walked into a memory.

Draco stopped, his heart hammering in his chest. He’d fucked this all up, and now he was turning up as though that would make everything better. An image came to mind, of Harry, naked, diving into the pool. _Think less_ , that was what Harry always said. Why not act like a Gryffindor, for once?

As he stood there, pretending to be a man of action while still prevaricating, a thin tendril of smoke rose from chimney. Harry was awake.

The door to the cabin flew open.

"Draco?"

Harry had on a soft pair of pyjama bottoms, and nothing else. He stopped on the veranda, his face caught between hope and disbelief. Guilt twisted in Draco when he saw the dark circles under Harry’s eyes.

"Surprise," Draco said, not knowing what else to say.

"How did you… What…"

"Fell from the sky this time, not a tree." Finally Draco’s legs got the message and began to move, closing the distance between them until he stood next to the veranda. Harry looked tired, and wary, but oh so good.

"It’s no good without you," Draco said.

"What isn’t?"

"Anything. Everything."

Harry ran his hand through his hair as though trying to sort through his feelings. "You didn’t even say goodbye."

"I… I know." Draco sighed. "Can I come in? I’ve been flying all night."

Something in Harry’s eyes softened for a fraction of a second, but hardened again as he stepped back and ushered Draco in. It wasn’t much, but it was Draco had to go on. One small spark of hope.

When they got inside though, Harry clanged around getting Draco a cup of coffee, and didn’t say a word until they were sitting down together. Not close like Draco had been with Luna, but on opposite sides of the table, Harry with his arms folded.

"I woke up and you were fucking gone. I thought you might have gone out, but then I saw your note. You left me a note, you coward."

Draco’s face flushed as the old hurt of Harry’s disappearance all those years ago flared up, the heat of it surprising Draco. "It’s more than you left when you ran away."

The words escaped Draco before he could stop them, but part of him was glad. Some part of him had been waiting years to say them.

Harry though, deflated, his shoulders slumping, and his head falling forward. Panic clawed up inside Draco; he had gone too far.

"I was running away," Harry said. He looked up. "I’m sorry I hurt you then, but it wasn’t you. This was different, you can’t tell me it wasn’t about me."

"When your friends turned up, it was as though I was watching myself disappearing from your life. You three were always so… together, I couldn’t see how I could fit in."

"Is that really what you thought? I don’t even know where to start." Harry took a deep breath and sighed. "I haven’t been able to be with them like that in years, and it was all because of _you_. I finally began to feel like myself again, and then you buggered off."

"I’m sorry," Draco said. "I am. That’s why I’ve come back. I… I went to Ollivanders but I couldn’t go in."

"You didn’t see him?" Harry asked, his voice rising in surprise.

Draco shook his head. "I tried. But I touched the doorframe and… I saw trees. And my heart… my heart felt as though it were breaking. I borrowed Luna’s broom. I’ve been on it all night, I just… I had to see you. Be with you."

Harry was silent.

"You shouldn’t throw away your apprenticeship," he said quietly. "That wand… it’s… I’ve never used a wand like it."

"I made it from your tree," Draco said.

"I know." Harry ran a finger along the grain of the table. "I could feel it. And the magic I cast when I use it… it feels more like the magic I use through the trees."

"So you’ve used it, then," Draco said.

"Did you mean what you said in the note, that you had faith in me?"

Draco nodded. "Whatever was going on for you ten years ago, I don’t think you’re quite the same person anymore."

"That’s what Hermione said."

"She’s wise, your friend."

"Do think this could work?" Harry asked, so softly Draco almost didn’t hear him. He still wasn’t looking directly at Draco, instead watching his finger as it traced the lines in the table top.

"I don’t think," Draco said, and Harry’s finger stopped moving. "I hope so." He reached out and hooked his fingers onto Harry’s. "I know I care about you, and that being away from you this week has been horrible."

"Awful."

"Terrible."

They looked at each other, and smiled.

"I missed you," Harry said. "Do you have an idea what a mind fuck that was? I have spent years accepting and being proud of how I live here alone, and then I’ve spent every day since you left pining after you, wishing I wasn’t alone. Poor Ron and Hermione, I think it was a bit of dampener on their holiday."

"I’ve missed you, too," said Draco, his grip on Harry’s hand becoming firmer. Harry squeezed back in response. "I was so sure the only way I could make walking away mean anything was going back to my apprenticeship. But when it came to it, the years of work I put in weren’t my priority at all. You were."

"We are a couple of idiots," Harry said.

"That we are."

They drank their coffees, looking at one another, smiling, their feet pressed against each other. There didn’t seem a need for words.

When they’d finished their coffees Draco rose and put the cups in the sink. He turned, and Harry was standing there. Waiting for him. Draco put his arms around Harry, and Harry put his arms around Draco. They stood there, by the sink, and Draco buried his head in Harry’s shoulder, relaxing into the familiar warmth of Harry’s body, and inhaling the scent of his skin.

And then their faces were close enough to feel Harry’s breath on his skin. Gently, as gently as the first time, their lips met in a kiss.

The kiss spoke of promises and apologies. It spoke of hurts and arguments to come, but it was also filled with hope.

When they pulled back from each other, Harry gave Draco a wry smile. "You look like you might fall asleep standing there."

"I could do," Draco said. "You’re very comfortable. Supportive. You’d make a good tree."

"Let’s get you in bed, let you rest." Harry sounded amused.

"You’re like a tree. Fucking amazing." Now that Draco was back, now that things seemed OK, his exhaustion hit him with all its force. It was harder to make sense when he talked. "Bed sounds good."

He climbed into bed, noting Harry’s things strewn all over the floor. "You’ve been sleeping here."

"It is my bed. And," Harry added a little sheepishly, "it still smelled of you."

"Mmmm," said Draco. Words seemed to difficult to make. He lay down on the bed, and Harry curled up beside him. Draco drifted off to sleep, warm and safe, and home.

*

Draco woke to the languid warmth of afternoon light filling the room.

Harry was no longer beside him, but he could hear the the sound of Harry in the kitchen, chopping some food.

"Harry," Draco said, and the chopping stopped. Harry appeared at the door, wearing his worn grey t-shirt. His hair was sticking up every which way as usual, and all Draco wanted to do was kiss him.

"You’re awake." Harry stayed in the doorway, and Draco’s desire to kiss him shifted into something else, something more awkward and unsure.

"I am. Come and sit with me."

"Only for a bit, I’m in the middle of making courgette chutney."

Draco made a face. "How does that taste?"

"OK, or I wouldn’t bother making it," Harry said. "But there are so many courgettes I’ve got to use them somehow."

Draco looked out of the window while Harry settled onto the edge of the bed next to Draco. The trees seemed to shimmer as they moved in a slight breeze. "It feels strange being here, like a dream, but I don’t know whether being back is the dream, or my time away."

"What do we do now?" Harry asked.

Draco took his hand. "I don’t know. This… how it’s been, it’s not going to be like that forever, is it?"

"Well for one thing it gets bloody freezing here," Harry said. "No more dipping in the pool. But..."

"Yes?"

"I can’t see how… are you here to stay? I mean, we have something together," he squeezed Draco’s hand, "but you’ve got this whole other life, too. Friends, family, your apprenticeship."

"And you have your trees."

"Maybe I could, I don’t know, connect my fireplace to the international Floo network?"

"No." Draco’s reaction was immediate. He wanted to be with Harry, but not at the cost of the magic of the cabin and the woods. "This place is special because it’s remote. You can’t put a line straight to the world into the heart of it."

Harry smiled, relief written all over his face. "I… that’s how I feel, but how else can we manage this?"

"I don’t even know whether Ollivander will have me back."

Harry pulled the beech wand from his pocket, and laid it on the bed between them. "He will. You’ve got something here, I don’t want you to waste it."

"I don’t want to waste this, either," said Draco, touching Harry’s cheek. "You and me."

"I haven’t gone further than the nearest village in ten years," Harry said. "Guillaume meets me there, and I pick up any extra food or supplies I need from the village shop. I… can’t imagine going further."

"You’ve been hiding for a long time," Draco said, thinking about how strong his own urge to hide had been after the war.

"I have," said Harry, "but maybe I need to stop running away. Maybe… maybe life is about more than hiding in the woods."

"Can it be both?" said Draco. "I want to make wands, but I want to be with you here, too."

"You would move away from your life in London?"

"For as much time as I can," said Draco.

"Even when snow comes through the roof?"

"If I can be with you. For however long this lasts, between us. I… I want to try."

Harry was quiet. He stroked the back of Draco’s hand with his thumb. "Maybe… maybe it’s time I came back. Visited the Weasleys. Saw Neville and Luna again. But," his eyes were intense as they held Draco’s gaze, "I can’t live there. I can’t live with all those people crowded around, with all the attention I’d get."

"We can work something out," Draco said. "Why can’t we find something that works for both of us?"

"It’s still hard to believe that’s possible."

"All we can do is hope," Draco said. "I… don’t want to be just ‘fine’ anymore. I want to know what life is like when I’m more open to it."

"And I… I’ve had enough of being alone," Harry said. "I want to be with you."

Draco touched Harry’s face again, and hooked his other hand in the softness of Harry’s t-shirt. The desire to kiss him had returned, it filled him with a soft ache. Whereas the first time they’d kissed Draco had wanted to consume Harry, now he wanted to savour him. He wanted to take his time, and taste Harry. With this in mind, he reached into a kiss, slow and sweet.

Harry’s hand came up to Draco’s side, a firm pressure that became more insistent as the kiss went on.

"Wait a second," said Harry, pulling back. He picked up his wand, waved it in the direction of the kitchen, then put it on the side. Then he returned to Draco, kissing him back the same way Draco had done him: with time, with openness. "This is going to take more than a moment," Harry said, sliding a hand under Draco’s shirt.

"So much for chutney."

"I can put it on hold for this," Harry said, and Draco realised that was how this was going to work: sometimes they’d willingly put aside what they were doing for each other, and sometimes they’d stick with making chutney. Or wands.

Draco kissed Harry on his neck, on the vibrating pulse there; he kissed Harry in the heat of the crook of his elbow; he kissed the calloused ends of Harry’s fingers.

Harry closed his eyes, and sighed into the kisses, then pulled Draco back for another kiss. The skin on Harry’s belly was soft, and Draco felt the intimacy of touching him there, a place that was soft and warm and smooth, so different from the toughness of his fingers. Gently, he pushed Harry back onto the bed, and lifted his t-shirt, kissing the skin there.

He lay his head on Harry’s short’s, his cheek brushing the warm line of Harry’s cock. "I’ve missed you," Draco said.

"Are you talking to my dick or me?"

"Both," said Draco, nuzzling at the fabric.

Harry pulled him up for a long kiss that left Draco dizzy. "We are wearing too many clothes," Harry said. "Always too many clothes." He sat up, and began to undress Draco. "How cold was it in London, anyway?" he asked, unbuttoning the shirt Draco was wearing, and then unbuckling his belt.

"I didn’t bring anything with me," Draco said. "I’m going to have to wear your clothes. This is your last chance to unbutton me for a while."

"Oh really?" Harry said. "We’ll see about that."

And then he pulled Draco’s trousers open, freed his cock, and sank down the bed and took it into his mouth.

Draco closed his eyes as Harry’s warm mouth wrapped around him. He was lost, he knew that, totally lost to this messy man in the woods. Draco let his body go, let it flop completely on the bed, as Harry pulled the trousers and underwear away.

"I am going to eat you up," Harry said, "and then I am going to let my dick let you know just how much it’s missed you."

Draco nodded, and let his legs fall open further. He let himself sink into the sensation of being sucked, licked, wanted. Too soon, Harry stopped, but the sight of him wet-lipped, raw with want, was enough to stop Draco complaining. Maintaining eye contact, Harry pushed Draco’s knees up, and cupped Draco’s arse, giving it a firm caress.

"It’s fucking hot that your shirt is still on," Harry said. It was open but unbuttoned.

"You’re still overdressed," Draco said, and watched as Harry reached up, pulling his t-shirt over his head, revealing that soft skin Draco loved over the hard abs that came from hard work, not vanity. "You are beautiful," Draco said, as Harry took off his shorts. "Every bit of you."

In answer, Harry retrieved his wand. "I think I can remember this," Harry said, and then he rubbed Draco’s arse again. Draco felt a surge of anticipation, a hot rush of _yes_ at being like this again.

"Please," he said. "Please," And then he felt then the deep cleaning-refreshing-loosening-liquid slip of his own preparation spell, but this time with added… tree. Added Harry.

"Fuck," he said at the wood-like rush of deep magic he felt. "Is all the magic from that wand like that?"

Harry nodded. "It’s like I’m in the woods." He still had the wand in his hand, and Draco felt it then, a caressing from the inside, firm and regular, round and round.

"Is that," he choked, his voice strained by the sheer overwhelm of the sensation, "Is that _tree_ magic?"

Harry nodded, sitting back on his heels now, and watching.

Draco groaned, the sensation so unlike anything he’d felt before he wasn’t sure whether it was too much or not. As though understanding, Harry put the wand aside and the feeling faded.

Harry came in for another kiss, this one with cocks touching, heat and sweat building between them as their hands reclaimed sides and thighs, ankles and wrists.

By the time Harry flipped Draco over and pushed in, a delicious pressing-filling-opening, Draco knew he would do anything to keep this, to stay with Harry. Joined, they moved together, and this time Draco knew that Harry was with him, not escaping anything. He could feel it, the same as he could feel the trees outside.

After all the time they’d taken tasting and reacquainting themselves with each other, they didn’t go slow at all, but fucked hard and fast. Draco’s world narrowed down to the feeling of being filled, over and over again, Harry’s weight pressing him into the bed. The room became only the sounds of flesh slapping flesh, deep groans, and the heady close smell of sex. Harry’s hands tightened on Draco’s, their fingers interlinked, and whatever last strand of reserve that was left in Draco snapped, and he writhed and moaned under the unrelenting pounding.

Harry came with a roaring shout, then watched as Draco fucked his own hand until he too came. They lay there, sweaty, sticky and spent, as though they had signed an agreement with their bodies, to be together.

Perhaps they had.

*

Draco put his hand to the door, and felt again the ancient oak tree.

"Hello," he whispered. And then he pushed the door open.

Ollivander was returning wands to their boxes, but stopped when he saw Draco.

"Draco," he said, and then he surprised Draco by first hugging him, then turning the sign to ‘closed’ in the shop window, and insisting on Draco sitting while he made him a cup of tea.

Sitting in his old chair at the back, listening to the sounds of Ollivander from the small kitchen, Draco began to feel uneasy. Did he really expect to walk back into his apprenticeship after leaving so abruptly?

When Ollivander returned with two chipped mugs, Draco rose to help him.

"It’s good to see you," Ollivander said, sitting down.

"It’s good to see you, too," Draco said. And it was. Even with the heady distraction of being with Harry, with knowing that he had left Harry in bed and would return to find him still there, it felt good to see the bright eyes and wrinkled skin of his mentor.

"Either you’re back to tell me you’ve decided that making wands is not, after all, your calling, or you’ve come to tell me that you have learned that which I could not teach you."

Draco was too tense to smile. "I went into the woods, and I learned how to… _feel_ the trees. The shop door… I never realised how old it was, the oak tree it was made from."

"You felt it?" Ollivander’s voice was sharp.

It stung a little, that Ollivander was surprised by this.

"I did."

"What exactly have you learned?"

Without saying anything, Draco put the wand he’d made for Harry onto the table between them. Ollivander snatched it up, and Draco took a sip of his tea.

"Mmm… beech," said Ollivander. "Around 10 inches… flexible… and…" he weighed it in his hands, and Draco watched fascinated. He’d seen Ollivander do this hundreds of times before, but always imagined it was mostly for show, the wands memorised or their labels read. But now he could see the shifts in Ollivander’s face, even in the way he held his body, that meant he was feeling different aspects of the wand. "Ah, unicorn core."

Ollivander turned the wand over in his hands a few times, then held it up close, examining it from end to end. Carefully, he placed it back down on the table.

"Quite extraordinary," he said. "This wood has not been turned at all."

It wasn’t a question, but Draco answered anyway. "No, it hasn’t."

"Wands don’t spring fully formed from trees, Draco, you know that."

Draco kept quiet, because in many ways that was precisely what this one had done.

"I haven’t seen anything like this in years, not since my travels…" Ollivander looked at him. "Where did you say you went?"

"I went to France, in the south."

Ollivander frowned. "That is not where I have seen this before. I have seen ancient examples from northern Asia, but this feels new."

"I made it this summer," Draco said.

"Mmm." Ollivander sat back, and was silent.

Draco continued to drink his tea. The face of his old teacher was unreadable, and Draco felt the fluttering high tension in his chest, the worry that somehow what he had learned wouldn’t be enough. He forced his shoulders down, thought of the warm softness of Harry’s skin, and tried to relax.

Ollivander’s chair creaked as he leant forward again, and Draco’s attention snapped back onto him. "This wand is different to the ones I make. It’s also different from the ancient ones I’ve seen. It seems that you, Draco Malfoy, are becoming a wandmaker. A true wandmaker finds their own way, makes their own mark on the world of magic."

The flutter became an impossible wave of hope, which was in a way a feeling of worry at a great level. It was unbearable, the not-knowing, the not-trusting of what he was hearing.

"Does this mean…"

"You are still my apprentice; you still have plenty to learn."

"I am?" Draco sat back, his breath a whoosh as his chest relaced. "I am," he repeated quietly. Ollivander’s watery eyes remained fixed on him. "And I know I do," said Draco. He began to feel out the shape of the idea; he had been too scared of being rejected to do this before. "There’s so much I want to find out. I want to try everything again, because now I can hear the wood, everything is different."

Ollivander smiled. "You are making an old man very happy." He nodded, then rocked himself so he could get out of the chair, and went to his workbench. He came back with some pieces of wood. "Tell me what you feel," he said. "I want to know where you are now."

Draco picked up the first, and closed his eyes. He got dappled light, the echo of birdsong… "Oak, relatively young, might suit someone musical."

"Yes," said Ollivander, looking pleased. "Oh, this is very good."

The next piece of wood felt so strong, Draco opened his eyes to look at it. "Ash, it would match someone with a strong will."

Ollivander sat back down in his armchair. "You have understood," he said. "You have learned that which cannot be taught. You are ready to progress in your apprenticeship."

"I want to be your apprentice, and I want to be a wandmaker," Draco said. "But… my priorities have changed."

"That beech wand was made with love and sadness," Ollivander said. "You learned more than how to hear the soul of trees."

"I needed to learn to open myself… I opened my heart, too," Draco said. He took the wand back, feeling the calm strength of the beech tree. With it in his hand, he felt he was carrying some part of Harry himself.

"And now you have two things you want, not one?" Ollivander asked softly.

"Yes," Draco nodded. "I want to learn from you, but I also want to spend time among the trees. Spend time with… him."

"Ah, I see." Ollivander steepled his fingers, and was silent.

Draco waited. He went to take another sip of his tea, but it was cold, so he laid the cup aside. Instead he held onto the beech wand, drawing strength from it.

"We can come to an arrangement," Ollivander said in the end. "I am interested in what you are capable of, in how you might end working differently to me. _That_ ," he said, "is the true mark of a craftsman: having your own style." He sighed. "We can work it out," he said, "so that you can have time here, and time there. Wherever that is."

"Are you sure?" Draco asked, feeling a weight of loss he hadn’t been expecting.

"This is the beginning of an ending, for us," Ollivander said, "and the beginning of something new, for you." Draco didn’t know whether he meant wandmaking, or love. "It is the order of things, and it is all that I have ever wanted for you as my apprentice."

Draco smiled at Ollivander, and it hit him that what he felt in the room, what he felt for Ollivander, and what Ollivander felt for him, was a type of love, too.

He got up, and held Ollivander’s hand while he said goodbye. There would be time to make the arrangements about how they would continue, but now it was time to see Harry.

*

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Rising out of sleep, Draco blinked in confusion. He was alone in bed. The knocking on the door persisted, and after a while Draco realised that Greg was probably out. He pulled on some pyjama bottoms, then went to see who was so desperate to get them to open up.

He opened the door to find Hermione Granger standing on the doorstep.

"Oh thank goodness!" She said, lowering her hand; she looked as though she had been about to give the door another pounding. "I’ve been looking for you everywhere. In the end I hunted down Claire and Stephen, I remember you spending time with them in eighth year, and they said you were living here with Gr—"

"You remember Claire and Stephen?"

"Of course I do! We went to a tiny school, Draco, why wouldn’t I know other students in our year? Anyway, I’m so glad I found you." And then she surprised him even more by throwing her arms around him.

His face full of frizzy hair, Draco patted her on the back, then stepped back.

"Why are you here? What’s going on?"

"It’s Harry," she said. "After you left… it was wonderful seeing him, but each day that passed it was obvious that he missed you. Terribly. That wand you made for him… it was so beautiful, he kept looking at it. And I don’t know, he’s so useless at saying how he’s feeling." She opened her bag, and rummaged around in it, her entire arm disappearing into it. She drew out an empty Muggle crisp packet. "I’ve brought you another Portkey. To take you back there… just in case."

"I… thank you," said Draco. "But I won’t be needing it."

"No?" She looked as though she might cry. "But Harry…"

"First of all, I think you have to trust both me and Harry to look after ourselves. And second of all, it would be pointless for me to go there—"

"I really thought you two—" She looked miserable. Desperate.

"It’s not that," Draco said. "Maybe you should come in, you can see for yourself."

As she stepped through the door there was the sound of a toilet flushing, then Harry came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.

"I… Oh!" She looked between the two of them, then sat in the nearest chair. "You’re here. I…" Words seemed to fail her.

"I am here," Harry said. "I want to be with Draco. He needed to be here, so I’m here."

"I went back to find him," said Draco. "I flew for a day and a night to get back." He crossed the room to stand with Harry.

"You’re _here_ ," said Hermione. "You’re in London."

"I… I thought I could try. You were right: I do feel differently about… magic, and other things, than I did ten years ago."

Hermione began to cry, soft tears that fell onto a smile that spoke of pain as well as happiness. "I hoped, I always hoped, but I didn’t think you’d ever come back."

"I don’t know if I’m back, exactly. I love the woods and my life there in the summer, but the winters are hard. I thought that… maybe I could try spending some time here this winter."

"And London feels all wrong to me now," said Draco, thinking of wide blue skies and trees that offered up their wood. "I want to be able to go outside every day, walk among trees."

"We… we’ve been talking. We’re going to find somewhere – in the UK – a little cottage." Harry held Draco’s hand. Draco squeezed back.

"Somewhere warm, with running water," Draco said.

"Somewhere quiet, with trees nearby," said Harry. "We’ll see what it’s like, being together. Draco can continue with his apprenticeship. And when spring comes…"

"When spring comes," Draco continued, "we’ll see what we want to do. Although I think I’d like to try combining working in the woods at Harry's place with making wands. The wands I want to make are… different to Ollivander’s."

"Oh," said Hermione. "Oh," she said again, and this time she was smiling through her tears. "I think maybe, you’ve both come home."

Draco got some tissues for Hermione while Harry put some clothes on. Then Draco left them talking quietly, and went to make a pot of tea. He marvelled at how much his life was unrecognisable from only a month or two before. "It’s not just sex, Hermione. We’ve talked and talked, too." Harry’s voice floated down the corridor and Draco smiled at Harry’s words. There had been plenty of both.

Standing at the sink to fill the kettle, Granger’s words, too, echoed in his mind, and Draco realised that she was right: he felt more at home than he had ever done before. And it wasn’t where he was, but what he was doing. Having a future in wandmaking – one that followed his own path, not Ollivander’s – was a feeling new and freeing.

And then there was Harry. He knew now that it was simple: where Harry was, that could, would, be home.

From the window he could see the little tree outside. The sycamore’s leaves were beginning to turn yellow; the leaves clung to the tree, but would soon be gone. But spring would come, and new ones would grow.

Draco fetched cups and prepared the pot. It was strange that maybe his life would include having to learn to say Hermione and Ron instead of Granger and Weasley. And, he realised with a groan, he had no idea how he was going to explain any of this to his parents.

But then he closed his eyes, and felt again the trace of Harry’s hands on his back, the way he had worked Draco open and laid his soul bare.

It was new, and unexpected, and uncertain, but he was going to take this chance. Draco was going to see what happened next, and it was, he suspected, going to be amazing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥
> 
> This work is part of HD Erised, an on-going anonymous fest. The creator will be revealed January 7th.


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